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ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
THROUGH  THE  AGES 


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/ >.  '    "  '    *  *    '    ^he  Authentic  Portrait  of  Chaucer 

PVom  MS.  of  Thomas  Occleve's  Poem,  De  re^imine  Principum,  in  the  British 
Museum.     (Early  XVth  Century) 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
THROUGH  THE  AGES 


BEOWULF  TO  STEVENSON 


BY    AMY    CRUSE 

Author  of  "  Elizabethan  Lyrists  and  their 
Poetry  "  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK   A,   STOKES   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


k 


^c^.<? 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  BALLANTYNE  PRESS 

LONDON  ENGLAND 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  aims  at  telling  the  story  of  Bngjlish  litera* 
ture  through  the  stories  of  individual  books.  Minor 
writers  and  minor  literary  movements  have  been 
disregarded  altogether,  and  space  has  thus  been  gained  for 
a  fuller  treatment  of  the  selected  works,  which  have  been 
chosen  in  the  first  place  because  they  are  great  literary 
masterpieces,  and  in  the  second  because  each  is  representative 
of  a  particular  period,  a  certain  class  of  writers,  or  a  common 
literary  tendency.  Of  these  books  the  author  has  told  the 
story  in  considerable  detail,  aiming  at  making  each  appear 
to  her  readers  as  a  hving  reality,  not  merely  a  constituent 
part  of  a  great  whole  known  as  English  Hterature.  She  has 
hoped  by  so  doing  to  set  up  along  the  road  that  must  be 
travelled  a  series  of  bright  hghts,  which,  although  they  do 
not  form  a  perfectly  continuous  line,  and  although  they  do 
not  mark  every  winding  and  every  change  of  level,  yet  do  show 
the  main  features  and  general  outhne  of  the  road,  and  do 
reveal  it  as  a  fair  and  pleasant  path  along  which  those  who 
have  once  travelled  will  be  wiUing  to  return  again  and  again, 
exploring  by-paths  and  finding  new  beauties. 

This  plan  naturally  excludes  much  of  what  is  ordinarily 
found  in  histories  of  BngHsh  literature,  but  at  the  same  time 
care  has  been  taken  that  no  essential  should  be  neglected.  A 
few  introductory  or  connecting  notes  have  been  added  to 
certain  chapters  where  the  continuity  is  not  clear,  but  for  the 
most  part  the  writer  has  relied  upon  the  connexion  naturally 

5 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

established  between  the  chapters  in  the  course  of  the  story. 
Each  chapter  is,  in  a  sense,  complete  in  itself,  though  threads 
pass  fromjone  to  another,  weaving  them  all  into  one  connected 
whole. 

The  book  is  not  designed  as  a  substitute  for  the  actual 
text  of  the  works  dealt  with ;  where  it  is  not  practicable  to 
read  those  in  their  entirety  such  selections  from  them  as  are 
provided  by  Mrs.  E.  ly.  Elias  in  English  Literature  in  Prose  and 
Verse  will  be  found  useful. 

A.  CRUSE 


CONTENTS 


BOOK    ONE 
THE  ANGLO-SAXON  PERIOD 

lAPTBR 

Introductory  Note 
„^   Beowui^f 
II.  C^dmon's  Paraphrase 

III.  The  Exeter  Book 

IV.  BEDE's  ECCI.ESIASTICAI.  HISTORY  OF  THE  EnGUSH 

Race 
V.  The  ENGI.ISH  Chronici^ 


PAQB 
15 

17 
26 

33 

39 
45 


THE  MIDDI.E  ENGIvIvSH  PERIOD 

Introductory  Note  49 

VI.  The  Chronica  Majora  of  Matthew  Paris  53 

yil.  Peari.  :  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight  61 

VIILJ^  Vision  of  Piers  Pi^owman  68 

JX.  The  Canterbury  Tai.es  75 

X.  Wici^if's  Bibi,e  87 

XI.  The  VoiAGE  AND  Travaile  OF  Sir  John  Mandevii.i,e  93 


THE  RENAISSANCE  PERIOD 


Introductory  Note 
XII.  Utopia 


99 
103 

7 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  TiND aide's  B1BI.E  114 

XIV.  EuPHUES  :  THE  Anatomie  of  Wit  119 
XV.  The  Sonnets  of  Sir  Phiup  Sidney  127 

^^XVI.  Dr.  Faustus  :  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar 

Bungay  133 

^XVII.  The  Faerie  Queene  143 

^.^^VIII.  The  Pi<ays  of  Shakespeare  154 

XIX.  Engi^and's  Hewcon  172 

XX.  Haki^uyt's  Voyages  180 

XXI.  Ecci^EsiASTiCAi,  P01.1TY  187 


FROM  THE  DEATH  OF  ELIZABETH  TO 
THE  RESTORATION 

Introductory  Note  195 

XXII.  The  Advancement  of  Learning  197 

XXIII.  The  A1.CHEMIST  205 

XXIV.  The  TEMPI.E  214 
XXV.  The  Hesperides  222 


THE  RESTORATION  PERIOD  < 

Introductory  Note  231       ! 

' 'XXVI.  Paradise  Lost  233 

XXVII.   ABSAI.OM  AND  ACHITOPHEI.  247 

XXVIII.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  255      ^ 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  TWO 
THE  AUGUSTAN  AGE 

CHATTER  PAGB 

Introductory  Note  265 

XXIX.  TheTatler  :  The  Spectator  267 
XXX.  The  Rape  of  the  lyOCK  :  The  Essay 

ON  Man  283 

XXXI.  Robinson  Crusoe  293 
XXXII.  The  Journai.  to  Stei«i.a  :  Gulliver's 

TrAVej^                  *  300 

XXXIII.  The  SEASc»fs  315 

«. 

I.ATER  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Introductory  Note  319 

XXXIV.  Pamela  :  Joseph  Andrews  321 
XXXV.  Johnson's  Dictionary  :  The  I^ives  of 

THE  Poets  333 

XXXVI.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  343 
XXXVII.  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 

Empire  354 

XXXVIII.  Evelina  362 

XXXIX.  The  Task  372 

Xly.  The  Poems  of  Robert  Burns  384 

EARI.Y  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  ..:;. 

Introductory  Notf,  395 

XI^I.  The  lyYRicAL  Ballads  397 

9 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

CHAPTER 

Xlyll.  Byron's  ChiIvDE  Haroi^d  :  Shei.i,ey's 

lyYRics  412 

XLIII.  Endymion  430 

XI,IV.  Pride  and  Prejudice  440 

XI,V.   The  lyAY  OF  THE  IvAST  MiNSTREI.    : 

WAVERI.EY  448 

XlyVI.  The  Essays  of  Eua  457 

THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Introductory  Note  469 

XlyVII.  Vanity  Fair  471 

XIvVIII.  David  Copperfiei^d  479 

XlylX.  Jane  Eyre  490 

I^.  Scenes  of  (Xericai,  I^ife  502 

lyl.  Sartor  Resartus  512 

lyll.  Modern  Painters  523 

lylll   The  Idyi<i3  of  the  King  533 

lylV.  BE1.1.S  AND  Pomegranates  :  Aurora 

lyEiGH  544 

I/V.  Thyrsis  :  Cui^TURE  and  Anarchy  556 

lyVI.  Kidnapped  :  Catriona  565 


10 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  AUTHENTIC  PORTRAIT  OF  CHAUCER  Frontispiece 

PACK 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  THE  MS.  OF  "  BEOWULF  "  22 

A  SCRIBE  WRITING  30 

"  THE  EXETER  BOOK  "  36 

A  PAGE  FROM  MS.  OF  BEDE'S  "  ECCI.ESIASTICAI,  HISTORY  "  40 

A  PAGE  FROM  MS.  OF  "  THE  ANGI.O-SAXON  CHRONICI^E  "  46 

A  PAGE  FROM  MS.  OF  "  CHRONICA  MAJORA  "  54 

AN  II,I,UMINATION  FROM  MS.  OF  "  PEARL  "  62 

AN  ILLUMINATION  FROM  MS.  OP  "  SIR  GA WAYNE  "  66 

A  PAGE  FROM  MS.  OF  "  PIERS  PLOWMAN  "  72 

CHAUCER  READING  TO  EDWARD  III  80 

JOHN  WICLIF  88 

SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE  94 

PILGRIMS  SETTING  OUT  96 

CAXTON  SHOWING  THE  FIRST  SPECIMEN  OF  HIS  PRINTING 

TO  EDWARD  IV  100 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE  "o 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  128 

ILLUSTRATION  TO  "  DR.  FAUSTUS  "  138 

EDMUND  SPENSER  I44 

UNA  AND  THE  FAUNES  AND  SATYRS  150 

SHAKESPEARE'S  BIRTHPLACE  AND  ANN  HATHA  WAY'S 

COTTAGE  156 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  160 

THE  GLOBE  THEATRE  IN  1613  166 

II 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


THE  SHAKESPEARE  MEMORIAI,  THEATRE 

PAGB 
170 

RAIvEIGH  :  THE  EARI,  OF  SURREY  :  DRAYTON 

176 

BISHOPSBOURNE  CHURCH 

192 

SIR  FRANCIS  BACON 

198 

BEN  JONSON 

206 

GEORGE  HERBERT 

216 

ROBERT  HERRICK 

224 

MUTTON'S  MULBERRY  TREE 

236 

JOHN  MILTON 

244 

JOHN  DRYDEN 

250 

JOHN  BUNYAN 

258 

SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 

268 

JOSEPH  ADDISON 

278 

ALEXANDER  POPE 

286 

FRONTISPIECE  TO  "ROBINSON  CRUSOE*' 

294 

JONATHAN  SWIFT 

306 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

322 

DR.  JOHNSON  IN  THE  HEBRIDES 

338 

GOLDSMITH  AT  LISSOY 

344 

EDWARD  GIBBON 

356 

FANNY  BURNEY 

364 

WILLIAM  COWPER 

374 

ROBERT  BURNS 

386 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

398 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

406 

LORD  BYRON 

414 

SHELLEY  WRITING  THE  DEDICATION  OF  "  THE  REVOLT  OF 

ISLAM  " 

422 

JOHN  KEATS 

432 

JANE  AUSTEN 

442 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


SIR  WAIyTER  SCOTT  450 

CHARLES  IvAMB  460 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  472 

CHARLES  DICKENS  482 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE  492 

GEORGE  ELIOT  50 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  51 

JOHN  RUSKIN  526 

LORD  TENNYSON  534 

ROBERT  BROWNING  546 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  550 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD  558 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  566 


BOOK  ONE 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Period 

THE  history  of  this  period  is  only  gradually  being  written. 
Modern  research  is  discovering  old  manuscripts  that 
have  lain  hidden  for  ages,  and  is  throwing  fresh 
Ught  on  others  that  have  been  httle  regarded.  But  already 
we  possess  enough  specimens  of  our  early  hterature  to  enable 
us  to  make  broad  general  statements  as  to  its  nature  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  written. 

The  greater  part  of  our  early  literature  is  in  verse.  Anglo- 
Saxon  verse  has  certain  definite  characteristics  which  distinguish 
it  from  the  verse  of  any  other  period.  Its  metre  is  quite 
unhke  the  metre  of  modern  Enghsh  verse,  and  does  not  depend 
upon  the  number  of  syllables  contained  in  each  line.  The 
lines  are  divided  into  halves  by  means  of  a  pause,  and  each 
half  Hne  contains  two  accented  syllables.  There  is  no  rhyme 
in  Anglo-Saxon  verse.  Instead,  there  is  studied  alliteration, 
which  forms  an  important  element  in  the  metrical  structure ; 
the  two  accented  syllables  in  the  first  half  of  the  line,  and  one 
of  the  accented  syllables  of  the  second  half  begin  with  the  same 
letter.    This  is  the  rule,  though  there  are  many  variations* 

The  prose  written  during  the  Anglo-Saxon  period  is  meagre 
in  quantity  and  of  small  literary  value.  The  English  Chronicle, 
a  few  prefaces  and  translations  by  Alfred  the  Great,  a  collection 
of  homihes  and  addresses — these  are  all  the  specimens  we 
possess.  Bede,  we  know,  translated  the  Gospel  of  St.  John 
into  the  English  tongue,  but  no  copy  of  his  work  has  come 
down  to  us. 

After  the  death  of  Bede  his  work  was  carried  on  by  his 
pupils.     One  of  these  founded  the  great  school  at  York,  to 

IS 


•* 

ii 


..;  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
which,  for  more  than  sixty  years,  students  from  all  parts  of 
Europe  came  for  the  teaching  that  was  unattainable  in  their 
own  countries.  From  York  scholars  went  to  the  court  of 
Charlemagne  at  Paris,  and  founded  there  the  great  schools 
that  became  the  glory  of  his  Empire.  Scarcely  had  they  left 
England  when  a  fresh  incursion  of  the  Danes  into  Northumbria 
took  place ;  whole  districts  were  laid  waste,  and  instead  of  a 
centre  of  learning  and  culture,  Northumbria  became  for  many 
years  a  region  of  desolation  and  ruin. 

In  the  ninth  century  the  efforts  of  Alfred  the  Great  created 
a  new  centre  of  learning  in  the  south,  but  after  his  death 
it  almost  immediately  declined.  The  latter  half  of  the  tenth 
century  brought  the  peaceful  and  prosperous  reign  of  King 
Edgar.  The  monastic  revival  which  resulted  from  the  efforts 
of  Dunstan  set  up  a  much  higher  standard  of  culture  among  the 
clergy.  The  English  schools  once  more  became  famous,  and 
it  is  to  this  period  that  the  homiUes  which  have  before 
been  mentioned  belong.  Fresh  incursions  of  the  Danes,  which 
led  to  the  establishment  of  the  Danish  rule  in  1013,  once 
more  set  England  in  turmoil.  I^iterature  died  out,  and  did 
not  again  revive  until  long  after  the  Norman  Conquest. 


16 


CHAPTER  I 
BEOWULF 

IN  the  Manuscript  Room  of  the  British  Museum  there  is 
a  small  parchment  book  of  one  hundred  and  forty 
pages,  old  and  worn  and  discoloured.  It  has  evidently 
suffered  from  fire,  for  its  edges  are  charred  and  broken,  and 
there  are  holes  in  some  of  the  leaves.  It  is  written  in  the  clear 
beautiful  hand  which  the  Irish  monks  introduced  into  England 
during  the  seventh  century  ;  its  language  is  the  West  Saxon 
form  of  Old  Enghsh.  There  is  no  attempt  at  illumination  or 
ornament,  except  that  the  capital  letters  beginning  a  fresh 
division  of  the  poem  are  larger  and  blacker  than  the  others. 
In  recent  years  the  book  has  been  carefully  and  skilfully  bound, 
and  the  edges  of  each  page  protected  with  strips  of  parchment ; 
for  its  importance  as  a  unique  and  priceless  literary  treasure 
has  at  last  been  recognized.  If  one  of  the  chances  of  its 
long  and  adventurous  existence  had  brought  it  to  destruction, 
and  it  had  never  reached  its  safe  resting-place  in  the  British 
Museum  we  should  have  lost  the  most  important  part  of  the 
first  chapter  in  the  history  of  our  literature.  We  should, 
besides,  have  lost  our  most  valuable  witness  to  the  manner 
of  Hfe  our  ancestors  led  in  those  far-off  days,  to  their  spirit 
and  temper,  and  to  the  aims  and  ideals  which  they  set  before 
themselves.  For  this  is  the  only  copy  known  to  be  in  existence 
of  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  epic,  Beowulf. 

Beowulf  stands  for  us  as  a  type  of  the  stories  our  ancestors 
loved.  It  tells  of  fierce  fighting  and  hand-to-hand  encounters, 
of  strange  and  terrible  beasts  whose  lair  is  in  "  fearsome  halls  " 
under  the  sea,  or  in  fiery  caverns  on  the  high  heath.  Mighty 
deeds  of  valour  are  done  as  man  and  monster  face  each  other 

B  17 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

in  the  midnight  darkness,  or  as  the  "  fierce-flaming  breath  " 
of  the  fiery  dragon  "  springeth  far  and  wide."  The  hero  of 
the  story  is  young,  handsome,  brave,  and  nobly  born,  cool  in 
the  midst  of  danger,  high-hearted  when  disaster  comes,  modest 
in  victory.  English  Hterature  has  given  us  many  such  heroes 
since  the  time  of  Beowulf  ;  he  stands  the  first  of  a  long  line 
which  reaches  on  even  to  our  own  day. 

Briefly  outlined  the  story  is  this.  Hrothgar,  king  of  the 
Scyldings,  built  a  great  and  magnificent  hall  which  he  called 
Heorot.  In  the  night  a  monster — ^half  man,  half  beast — 
named  Grendel,  entered  the  hall,  and  carried  off  thirty  thanes. 
Similar  attacks,  constantly  renewed,  filled  Hrothgar's  kingdom 
with  mourning.  The  news  reached  Beowulf,  the  Geat,  who 
took  ship,  came  to  the  land  of  the  Scyldings,  and  offered  his 
services  to  Hrothgar  to  rid  him  of  the  fiend.  That  night 
Grendel  came  as  before,  but  was  seized  by  Beowulf,  who 
struggled  with  him  until  the  monster,  mortally  wounded, 
fled  away,  leaving  his  arm  and  shoulder  in  the  grip  of  Beowulf. 
Great  was  the  rejoicing,  but  sorrow  was  renewed,  when, 
during  the  following  night,  the  mother  of  Grendel,  came  to 
avenge  her  son.  She  carried  off  Hrothgar's  favourite  thane, 
i^schere.  The  news  was  told  to  Beowulf,  who  at  once  started 
to  find  the  lair  of  the  monster.  He  descended  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  where  he  found  a  roofed  hall,  the  home  of  Grendel's 
mother.  Beowulf  wrestled  with  and  overcame  her,  cut  off 
her  head  and  returned  with  it  to  land.  Hrothgar  gave  him 
great  rewards  and  he  went  back  with  glory  to  his  home. 

The  next  adventure  took  place  when  Beowulf  had  succeeded 
to  the  throne  of  the  Geats  and  had  reigned  for  fifty  years. 
Then  the  kingdom  began  to  be  troubled  by  a  fire-drake,  who 
guarded  a  huge  treasure  in  a  stone  barrow  on  the  heath. 
Beowulf  sought  him  out  in  his  lair,  and  after  a  fierce  encounter, 
killed  him,  but  died  himself  from  the  poison  of  a  wound  given 
him  by  the  dragon. 

Interest  in  the  Beowulf  manuscript  was  first  aroused  about 
a  hundred  years  ago,  and  since  that  time  it  has  been  closely 
studied  by  scholars  and  experts.  Several  theories  with  regard 
i8 


BEOWULF 

to  its  date  and  origin  have  been  put  forward,  and  the 
known  facts  of  its  history  have  been  supplemented  by  surmises 
based  upon  its  language,  its  style,  its  story,  the  allusions  it 
contains,  and  other  internal  marks.  To  give  anything  like 
an  authoritative  account  of  the  poem  is,  therefore,  impossible  ; 
but  by  reasoning  upon  the  conclusions  which  research  has 
up  to  the  present  time  estabhshed,  it  is  possible  to  sketch 
out  the  lines  upon  which  its  inception  and  growth  have  probably 
proceeded. 

The  races  that  dwelt  in  Northern  Europe  round  about  the 
shores  of  the  Baltic  Sea  seem,  at  some  time  during  those 
ages  which  lie  behind  history,  to  have  evolved  for  themselves 
a  religion  that  was  really  a  nature  mythology.  By  means  of 
this  they  accounted  for  the  creation  of  the  world,  Hght  and 
darkness,  summer  and  winter,  and  all  the  operations  of  Nature. 
It  is  probable  that  the  story  of  Beowulf  had  its  ultimate 
origin  in  one  of  the  myths  so  formed.  In  those  wild,  marshy, 
sea-girt  regions,  winter  was  a  time  of  dread.  Its  furious 
storms  turned  the  sea  into  a  devouring  monster  "  greedy 
and  dark  of  mood  "  ;  its  treacherous  fogs,  hke  "  a  dark  death 
shadow,"  "  night  after  night  held  the  murky  moors."  But 
the  short,  bright  summer  came  at  last,  drove  away  darkness 
and  terror,  and  brought  joyful  relief.  These  facts  the  old 
Teutonic  races  represented  in  primitive  and  picturesque 
fashion.  They  conceived  winter  as  a  terrible  monster,  strong, 
cruel,  fierce,  and  cunning,  and  kindly  summer  as  a  beneficent 
deity  who  grappled  with  this  enemy  and  finally  overthrew  him. 
So  a  nature  myth  was  formed,  and  soon  distinct  personahties 
were  given  to  its  characters.  In  some  of  the  old  Scandinavian 
records  we  find  that  the  god  of  summer  days  is  called  Beowa, 
and  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  his  name  has  some 
connexion  with  the  name  of  the  hero  of  the  poem  we  are 
considering. 

The  myth  grew,  as  we  know  myths  did  grow  among  all 
the  early  peoples.  Episode  after  episode  was  added.  The 
wili^loomy  nature_ofa^great  p^rt  oLthecQuntry — the  desolate 
fens,  the  coast  wrapped  in  mirk  and  mist,  the  sea  dark  and 

19 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

treacherous — had  a  stern  influence  upon  the  imagination  of 
the  men  who  inhabited  it.  They  peopled  the  land  and  the 
sea  with  creatures  dire  and  terrible — sea-wolves  and  fire- 
drakes,  "  many  of  the  dragon  kind  breathing  fire,"  nickers 
or  water  spirits,  eotens — ^loathly  giants  half  human  and  half 
beast.  All  these  Beowa  must  conquer,  and  the  warhke 
spirit  of  our  fathers  loved  to  dwell  on  the  details  of  the  struggle, 
the  fierce  hand-to-hand  grapple,  the  hard  blows  given  and 
received.  Their  minstrels  or  '  scops  ' — the  '  smiths  of  song  ' 
— ^fashioned  the  story  into  verse  and  sang  it  to  eager  listeners 
gathered  round  the  winter  fire  in  the  hall  of  some  great  king  or 
chieftain. 

As  we  approach  the  sixth  century  and  records  grow  a  little 
clearer,  the  story  begins  to  connect  itself  with  historic  fact. 
Hygelac,  king  of  the  Geats,  Beowulf's  liege  lord,  has  been 
identified  with  Chochilaicus  mentioned  in  the  lyatin  history  of 
Gregory  of  Tours.  Between  the  years  512  and  520  Gregory  tells 
us,  at  the  time  when  the  advance  of  the  Saxons  in  England 
had  been  for  the  time  stopped  through  the  exertions  of  the 
Britons  under  the  renowned  King  Arthur,  Chochilaicus  made 
a  raid  upon  the  Frisian  shore.  His  band  had  worked  great 
havoc,  plundering  and  slaying  all  around,  and  were  carrying 
their  spoil  back  to  the  ships  when  a  force  sent  by  the  Frankish 
king  overtook  and  conquered  them.  Chochilaicus  was  killed, 
and  the  spoil  recovered.  Reference  is  made  to  this  raid 
several  times  in  Beowulf,  "  Hygelac,"  we  are  told,  "  came 
faring  with  a  fleet  to  the  Frisians'  land,  when  the  Hetware 
humbled  him  in  battle,  speedily  attained  through  greater 
might,  that  the  armed  warrior  must  bow  him  to  his  fall.  He 
fell  in  the  midst  of  his  fighting  bands."  And  again,  "  They 
slew  Hygelac,  son  of  Hrethel,  when  in  Friesland  in  storm  of 
battle,  the  king  of  the  Geats,  gracious  lord  of  his  people,  died 
of  the  sword-drink,  struck  down  by  the  war-blade." 

Historical  originals  have  also  been  found  for  several  of  the 
other  characters  of  the  poem,  including  Beowulf  himself. 
Scandinavian  tradition  preserves  the  memory  of  a  thane  of 
Hygelac's,  Bothvari  Biarki,  whose  story  bears,  in  some  points, 
20 


BEOWULF 

a  marked  resemblance  to  the  story  of  the  hero  of  the  poem. 
It  seems  probable,  therefore,  that  a  thane  of  this  period  became 
famous  among  his  countrymen  for  his  victorious  encounters 
with  the  wild  beasts  that  infested  the  land,  as  well  as  for  his 
prowess  in  battle.  I^ays  were  sung  in  his  honour,  his  deeds 
were  magnified,  and  he  became  a  popular  hero.  In  process 
of  time  the  resemblance  between  his  story  and  the  myth  of 
Beowa  brought  about  a  fusion  of  the  two,  and  the  hero  of  this 
composite  tale  emerged  with  all  the  characteristic  and  attractive 
human  quahties  of  the  warrior  and  the  supernatural  attributes 
of  the  god  added  thereto. 

In  this  new  form  the  story  again  became  subject  to  alterations 
and  additions.  At  that  time  stories  of  great  deeds  were 
spread  abroad  over  the  land,  and  passed  from  one  generation 
to  another  by  means  of  the  songs  of  the  minstrels.  In  these 
songs  several  unconnected  incidents  were  often  united  to  form 
one  story,  and  as  the  names  of  the  various  heroes  died  out  of 
the  memories  of  the  people  the  scops  freely  attributed  their 
deeds  to  favourite  legendary  characters.  In  this  way  it  is 
possible  that  Beowulf  has  been  credited  with  heroic  actions 
and  gallant  words  which  really  belong  to  forgotten  worthies  of 
his  race. 

At  what  time  or  by  what  means  the  story  came  to  England 
we  are  not  certain.  Some  scholars  think  that  the  Geats, 
over  whom  Beowulf  ruled,  were  a  Low  German  tribe,  related 
to  the  Anglo-Saxons.  In  that  case  the  minstrels  of  the  tribe 
would  naturally  have  carried  their  lays  to  our  country  some 
time  during  the  years  occupied  by  the  Saxon  conquest  of 
Britain.  Other  scholars  believe  the  Geats  to  have  been 
Scandinavians  or  Danes,  and  think  that  it  was  during  the 
Danish  raids  and  settlements  of  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries 
that  the  poem  was  introduced.  However  that  may  be, 
introduced  it  was,  not  in  any  written  form,  but  by  means  of 
the  lays  held  in  the  memories  of  the  scops.  In  its  new  home 
it  soon,  we  may  believe,  stood  as  high  in  favour  as  it  had 
done  in  the  farther  North.  Its  wild  and  warhke  tone  suited  the 
spirit  of  the  conquerors,  even  when,  as  the  years  passed  by 

21 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

they  gradually  settled  down  to  peaceable  occupations,  and 
adopted  Christianity.  Yet  still  their  pulses  would  stir  and 
their  hearts  glow  at  a  tale  of  some  grim  and  mighty  combat, 
where,  by  sheer  valour  of  heart  and  strength  of  limb  the 
victory  was  gained.  So  Beowulf  lived  on,  sung  by  the  scops, 
and  applauded  by  their  hearers  at  feast  and  revel. 

There  may  have  been  several  versions  of  the  poem,  each 
differing  widely  from  the  others,  for  by  this  time  many  hands 
had  been  at  work  on  it,  altering  and  revising  it  according  to 
individual  taste.  It  is  significant,  however,  that  no  allusions 
to  any  national  event  that  took  place  later  than  the  first  half 
of  the  sixth  century  are  introduced.  Also,  all  the  descriptive 
passages  apply  to  the  scenery  and  natural  features  of  the 
countries  bordering  the  Baltic  Sea.  The  site  of  Hrothgar's 
great  hall,  Heorot,  is  almost  certainly  the  little  village  of 
I^eire  on  the  island  of  Zealand.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the 
story  underwent  no  fundamental  alteration  after  it  came  to 
England. 

The  chief  changes  that  this  period  witnessed  were  due  to  the 
religion  of  the  country.  The  poem,  as  we  have  it  now,  shows 
a  very  curious  mixture  of  pagan  and  Christian  elements.  The 
general  tone  is  undoubtedly  pagan  and  there  are  allusions  to 
pagan  beliefs  and  pagan  ceremonies.  But  throughout  the  poem 
are  scattered  lines  and  passages,  many  of  them  of  great  beauty, 
which  are  distinctly  Christian  in  character.  "  The  Almighty," 
sang  the  scop  in  the  hall  of  Heorot,  "  framed  the  world,  the 
plain  bright  in  beauty  which  the  waters  encircle,  and,  glorying 
in  his  handiwork,  set  the  sun  and  moon  to  lighten  the  earth- 
dwellers,  and  decked  the  corners  of  the  earth  with  boughs  and 
leaves,  and  gave  life  to  every  kind  of  creature  that  walks 
aUve."  Nothing  could  be  more  opposed  to  the  pagan  concep- 
tion of  the  creation  of  the  world  than  this  passage.  The 
introduction  of  such  sentiments  was  a  natural  result  of  the  lay 
being  sung  by  minstrels  who  were,  nominally,'at  least.  Christians. 
Their  knowledge  of  the  doctrines  of  their  religion  was  probably 
of  the  most  elementary  kind,  and  the  mixture  of  pagan  and 
Christian  sentiments  which  strikes  modern  readers  as  incon- 


^<r*p 


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,1.. 


]7on*i  locen    ]ipri5  ^}^^  {a\i  {hn^  nifcn 
*     T>um  pa  me  cofeie-  pititlTum  in]?v  »,/  ;^,v 
jte-^feirmnTi   fiiw^*!^   ^poTnon   ji'irr-^ti 
•5-t^me]»e-  fi^e-  fcyl^a^  |u>ri>a<''^ni;n  lien  jh 

bVjinan     nj  11^5  ion    fuJf  (b^t^o   ^urnena 

z:e  rcyb^r  >]^^^  r>7icix"  i^mm  ]ielm.if^^ 


A  Fragment  of  the  MS.   of  "Beowulf 
In  the  British  Museum 


BEOWULF 

gruous,  did  not  appear  strange  to  them.  How  far  their  work 
extended  we  do  not  know,  but  it  seems  probable  that  to  these 
singers  of  the  lay  some,  at  least,  of  the  Christian  interpolations 
are  due. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  the  poem  was  written  down. 
In  the  tenth  century  (so  much  the  language  of  the  manuscript 
indicates)  a  copyist,  who  was  probably  a  monk,  undertook  the 
work. 

The  north  of  England  was  at  this  period  the  great  home  of 
learning,  and  it  is  believed  that  the  first  copy  of  Beowulf  was 
made  in  a  Northumbrian  monastery.  Who  the  copyist  was 
that  did  this  great  service  to  his  country,  and  under  whose 
orders  he  worked  we  do  not  know.  Whether  he  found  the 
poem  ready  to  his  hand,  or  whether  he  brought  together 
several  separate  lays  and  combined  them  into  the  Beowulf  as  we 
have  it  now  can  only  be  a  matter  of  conjecture.  Perhaps  he 
was  attracted  to  the  story  by  some  fighting  instinct  in  himself, 
either  inherited  or  surviving  from  a  warhke  youth  before  he 
left  the  turbulence  of  the  world  for  the  quiet  of  the  cloister  ; 
perhaps  he  felt  something  of  the  old  joy  of  battle  revive  as 
he  wrote  down  the  minstrel's  words.  But  he  would  realize 
that,  as  a  follower  of  the  White  Christ,  he  must  try  to  conquer 
this  feeling,  and  it  may  be  that,  partly  as  a  result  of  this 
consciousness,  he  tried  to  give  to  the  old  pagan  epic  some 
transforming  touches  which  should  cause  it  to  redound  to  the 
honour  and  glory  of  God. 

Many  copies  of  the  original  manuscript  were  probably  made, 
and  in  this  new  form  Beowulf  again  went  on  its  way  through 
the  country.  All  the  copies  have  perished  or  remain  still 
hidden,  saving  only  that  which  is  now  treasured  in  the  British 
Museum.  A  close  examination  of  the  text  of  this  has  led 
scholars  to  the  belief  that  the  poem  was  first  written  in  the 
Northern  or  Midland  dialect,  and  then  copied  out  in  West 
Saxon,  the  dialect  of  the  south. 

To  a  monastery  in  the  south  of  England,  therefore,  this 
manuscript  probably  belonged.  It  would  appear  that  at 
some  time  or  other  it  was  subjected  to  revision,  for  there  are 

23 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

interpolations  and  alterations  to  be  distinguished,  obviously 
written  in  a  different  ink  from  that  used  in  the  original  work. 
But  for  long  years  it  probably  lay  unnoticed  on  a  shelf  in  the 
monastery  library  along  with  many  other  manuscripts  which 
the  diUgence  of  the  copyists  belonging  to  the  establishment 
had  produced.  After  the  Norman  Conquest  there  was  little 
demand  for  poems  of  the  character  of  Beowulf.  The  minstrels 
sang  softer  ditties,  of  which  the  main  theme  was  love,  and 
when  warfare  was  described  it  was  the  warfare  of  chivalry 
not  of  the  rough  Teutons.  For  a  time  the  glory  of  the  older 
literature  was  eclipsed. 

During  the  five  centuries  that  followed  the  Conquest,  the 
Church  passed  through  times  of  danger  and  times  of  triumph, 
and  each  monastery  had  its  chequered  history.  But  the 
manuscript  of  the  Saxon  monk  seems  to  have  remained  on 
some  remote  shelf,  undisturbed.  At  last,  in  the  sixteenth 
century  came  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  and  the 
scattering  of  their  treasures.  Many  manuscripts  were  lost, 
many  were  destroyed  or  defaced.  Many,  we  know,  from 
discoveries  made  since,  were  used  in  the  binding  of  new  books. 
Some  were  employed  for  purposes  still  more  ignoble.  Men 
used  them.  Bishop  Bale  tells  us,  "  some  to  scour  their  candle- 
sticks, and  some  to  rub  their  boots.  Some  they  sold  to  the 
grocers  and  soap-sellers,  and  some  over  sea  to  the  bookbinders, 
not  in  small  number,  but  at  times  whole  ships  full,  to  the 
wondering  of  the  foreign  nations." 

Some,  however,  were  recovered  by  the  efforts  of  munificent 
friends  of  learning  who  knew  the  value  of  the  treasure  that  had 
been  so  roughly  treated.  Among  these  was  Sir  Robert  Bruce 
Cotton  (born  1571) .  He  made  a  diligent  search  for  the  scattered 
manuscripts,  hunting  them  out  from  the  most  unlikely  hiding- 
places,  and  he  managed  to  recover  a  large  number,  which 
included  the  copy  of  Beowulf.  These  formed  the  foundation 
of  the  famous  library  since  known  by  his  name.  His  son  and 
grandson  made  large  additions  to  the  library,  and  it  was  handed 
over  to  the  State  for  public  use  in  1702.  In  1730  the  books 
were  removed  to  Ashburnliam  House,  Westminster.     Here, 

H 


BEOWULF 

In  the  following  year,  a  fire  broke  out,  which  seriously  damaged 
many  invaluable  manuscripts.  Among  them  was  the  Beowulf 
MS.  Fortunately,  however,  parchment  resists  very  strongly 
the  action  of  fire.  A  few  holes  were  burnt  in  the  latter  pages 
of  the  book,  but  the  chief  damage  consisted  in  the  charring  of 
the  edges  of  the  leaves,  which  rendered  them  so  brittle  that  a 
considerable  part  has  since  crumbled  away,  carrying  with 
it  letters  and  even  words  of  the  poem.  For  a  time  the  manu- 
scripts were  sheltered  in  the  old  dormitory  at  Westminster, 
but  in  1753  they  were  transferred  to  the  British  Museum. 
Here  the  value  of  the  Beowulf  MS.  was  discovered  by  the 
scholars  who  had  access  to  it,  and  on  their  representations, 
the  authorities  took  steps  to  arrest  the  process  of  destruction 
set  up  by  the  fire.  It  is  now  treasured  with  the  care  that 
befits  its  value  as  the  only  known  copy  of  the  first  English 
epic. 


25 


CHAPTER  II 

CiEDMON'S    PARAPHRASE 

ON  the  wildest  and  stormiest  part  of  the  Yorkshire 
coast,  where  the  River  Esk  flows  out  between  two 
great  headlands  to  the  sea,  there  grew  up  in  the  early 
part  of  the  seventh  century  a  small  hamlet.  Groups  of  fisher- 
men's huts  stood  on  the  margin  of  the  beach,  and  were  scattered 
over  the  lower  slopes  of  the  chff  which  rose  darkly  behind  the 
little  bay.  A  winding  road  led  to  the  rounded  and  grass- 
covered  headland  above,  and  passed  on  over  green  slopes,  still 
ascending,  until  it  reached  the  edge  of  a  great  moor.  Here, 
in  657,  Hild,  a  daughter  of  the  royal  house  of  Northumbria, 
built  her  famous  monastery.  The  monastery,  like  the  hamlet, 
was  at  first  called  Streoneshalh,  but  two  hundred  years  after 
its  foundation  both  received  from  the  Danes  the  name  which 
they  now  bear — Whitby. 

Northumbria  was  at  this  time  chief  among  the  Saxon 
kingdoms.  After  a  long  period  of  struggle  it  had  attained 
at  last  to  the  overlordship  of  the  country,  and,  after  Oswy's 
victory  over  Mercia  in  655,  it  enjoyed  a  short  period  of  peace 
and  prosperity.  Christianity  had  been  introduced  into 
Northumbria  from  Kent  about  627,  but  in  the  struggle  for  the 
overlordship  of  the  country  the  new  religion  had  been  forgotten, 
and  almost  all  traces  of  it  had  disappeared.  It  was  reintroduced 
by  missionaries  from  Ireland.  These  brought  with  them 
something  more  than  the  doctrines  of  Christianity.  They 
brought  the  fire,  enthusiasm,  and  passion  which  at  that 
time  distinguished  the  Celtic  Church  ;  they  brought  the  ardent 
love  of  learning  which  seemed  in  those  troubled  days  to  have 
died  out  save  in  remote  and  unmolested  Ireland.  The  whole- 
26 


H[  C^DMON'S  PARAPHRASE 
earted  devotion  of  such  men  as  Columba  and  Aidan,  the 
beauty  of  their  Hves  and  the  fervour  of  their  preaching  kindled 
the  imagination  and  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  Northumbrians. 
A  wave  of  rehgious  enthusiasm  passed  over  the  country. 
Men  and  women  were  eager  to  dedicate  their  hves  to  the  service 
of  God  ;  kings  and  nobles  gave  large  gifts  of  land  and  money 
to  the  church,  and  monasteries  began  to  rise  in  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom. 

Of  these  the  monastery  of  Streoneshalh  quickly  became 
the  richest  and  most  famous.  Much  of  its  renown  was  due  to 
Hild,  its  founder  and  first  abbess.  Her  figure,  though  history 
shows  it  to  us  but  dimly,  has  a  large  and  simple  grandeur 
suited  to  the  scenes  in  which  she  worked.  She  was  the  mother 
of  her  monastery,  known  and  revered  by  its  humblest  members  ; 
she  was  the  counsellor  of  kings  and  of  bishops  ;  she  was  the 
wise  and  saintly  teacher,  to  whom  came  a  crowd  of  scholars 
eager  to  learn  the  lore  of  the  Christian  life.  Many  men  and 
women  who  afterward  became  famous  studied  at  that  grey 
monastery  beside  the  Northumbrian  sea.  Bthelfleda,  daughter 
of  King  Oswy,  spent  almost  all  her  life  within  its  walls,  and 
throughout  England  during  the  next  generation  there  were 
priests  and  bishops  who  had  been  Hild's  scholars.  But  the 
fame  of  these  has  faded,  and  their  names  are  almost  forgotten  ; 
not  one  of  the  wealthy,  high-born  and  learned  inmates  of 
the  monastery  has  given  to  it  half  the  renown  which  has 
come  from  one  of  its  humblest  servants — a  cowherd  named 
Csedmon,  who  is  the  first  of  the  English  poets. 

We  know  nothing  of  the  life  of  Caedmon  except  what  Bede 
tells  us  in  his  Ecclesiastical  History,  written  about  fifty  years 
later. 

"  In  the  monastery  of  this  abbess,"  he  says,  "  was  a  certain 
brother  especially  marked  by  Divine  grace  since  he  was 
wont  to  make  songs  suited  to  rehgion  and  piety,  so  that  what- 
ever he  had  learnt  from  the  Divine  writings  through  inter- 
preters, this  he  in  a  little  while  produced  in  poetical  expressions 
composed  with  the  greatest  harmony  and  accuracy,  in  his 
own  tongue,  that  is,  in  that  of  the  Angles.     By  his  songs  the 

27 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

minds  of  many  were  excited  to  contemn  the  world,  and  desire 
the  celestial  Hfe.  And,  indeed,  others  also  after  him  in  the 
nation  of  the  Angles  attempted  to  compose  religious  poems, 
but  none  could  equal  him.  For  he  himself  did  not  learn 
the  art  of  poetry  from  men,  or  by  being  instructed  by  man ; 
but,  being  divinely  assisted,  received  gratuitously  the  gift 
of  singing,  on  which  account  he  never  could  compose  any 
frivolous  or  idle  poem,  but  those  only  which  pertain  to  religion 
suited  his  religious  tongue.  For  having  lived  in  the  secular 
habit  unto  the  time  of  advanced  age,  he  had  never  learned 
anything  of  singing.  Whence,  sometimes  at  a  feast,  when 
it  was  determined  for  the  sake  of  mirth  that  all  should  sing  in 
order,  he,  when  he  saw  the  harp  approaching  him,  used  to  rise 
in  the  midst  of  supper,  and,  having  gone  out,  walk  back  to 
his  home. 

"  Which  when  he  was  doing  on  a  time,  and,  having  left 
the  house  of  entertainment,  had  gone  out  to  the  stables  of  the 
beasts  of  burden,  the  care  of  which  was  entrusted  to  him  on 
that  night,  and  there,  at  the  proper  hour,  had  resigned  his 
limbs  to  sleep,  a  certain  one  stood  by  him  in  a  dream,  who 
saluting  him,  and  calling  him  by  his  name,  said,  '  Gaedmon, 
sing  me  something.'  Then  he  answering  said,  '  I  know  not 
how  to  sing ;  and  for  that  reason  I  went  out  from  the  feast 
and  retired  hither,  because  I  could  not  sing.'  Again  he  who 
was  talking  with  him  said,  '  Yet  you  have  something  to  sing 
to  me.'  '  What,'  said  he,  '  must  I  sing  ?  '  The  other  said, 
'  Sing  the  beginning  of  created  things.'  Having  received 
this  reply,  he  immediately  began  to  sing  verses  in  praise  of 
God  the  Creator,  which  he  had  never  heard,  whereof  this  is 
the  purport.  Now  we  must  praise  the  Author  of  the  celestial 
kingdom,  the  power  of  the  Creator  and  His  counsel,  the  deeds 
of  the  Father  of  glory.  How  He,  being  eternal  God,  was  the 
author  of  all  wonderful  things ;  who  first  created  heaven 
for  the  sons  of  men,  as  the  roof  of  their  dwelling  and  afterwards 
created  the  earth,  being  the  omnipotent  guardian  of  mankind. 
This  is  the  sense,  but  not  the  exact  order  of  the  words  which 
he  sang  in  his  sleep,  for  songs,  however  excellently  composed, 
28 


CiEDMON'S    PARAPHRASE 

cannot  be  translated  from  one  tongue  into  another,  word  for 
word,  without  some  loss  of  their  beauty  and  spirit.  Moreover, 
on  his  rising  up  from  sleep,  he  retained  in  memory  all  that  he 
had  sung  in  his  dream,  and  presently  added  to  it  more  words 
of  song  worthy  of  God,  after  the  same  fashion. 

"  And  coming  in  the  morning  to  the  steward  who  was  set 
over  him,  he  told  him  what  a  gift  he  had  received  ;  and  having 
been  brought  to  the  abbess,  he  was  ordered,  in  the  presence 
of  many  learned  men,  to  declare  his  dream  and  to  repeat  the 
song,  that  it  might  be  tested  by  the  judgment  of  all,  what 
or  whence  it  was  that  he  related.     And  all  concluded  that  a 
celestial  gift  had  been  granted  him  by  the  Lord.     And  they 
interpreted  to  him  a  certain  passage  of  sacred  history  or  doc- 
trine, and  ordered  him  to  transpose  it,  if  he  could,  into  poetical 
rhythm.     And    he,    having    undertaken    it,    departed,    and 
returning  in  the  morning,  brought  back  what  he  was  ordered 
to  do,  composed  in  most  excellent  verse.     Whereupon  presently 
the  abbess,  embracing  heartily  the  grace  of  God  in  the  man, 
instructed  him  to  leave  the  secular  habit,  and  to  take  the 
monastic  vow  ;    and  having,  together  with  all  her  people, 
received  him  into  the  monastery,  associated  him  with  the 
company  of  the  brethren,  and  ordered  him  to  be  instructed 
in  the  whole  course  of  sacred  history.     And  he  converted  into 
most  sweet  song  whatever  he  could  learn  from  hearing,  by 
thinking  it  over  by  himself,  and,  as  though  a  clean  animal, 
by  ruminating ;    and  by  making  it  resound  more  sweetly, 
made  his  teachers  in  turn  his  hearers.    Moreover,  he  sang  of 
the  creation  of  the  world,  and  the  origin  of  mankind,  and  the 
whole  history  of  Genesis  ;   concerning  the  going  out  of  Israel 
from  Egypt,  and  their  entrance  into  the  land  of  promise, 
and  of  many  other  histories  of  Holy  Scripture  ;   of  the  Lord's 
incarnation,  passion,  resurrection,  and  ascension  into  heaven  ; 
of  the  coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost,and  the  teaching  of  the  apostles. 
He  also  made  many  songs  concerning  the  terror  of  the  future 
judgment,  and  the  horror  of  the  punishment  of  Gehenna,  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  heavenly  kingdom;  besides  many  more, 
concerning  the  Divine  benefits  and  judgments,  in  all  which 

29 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  endeavoured  to  draw  men  away  from  the  love  of  wickedness, 
and  to  excite  them  to  the  love  and  diligent  practice  of  well- 
doing. For  he  was  a  very  religious  man,  and  humbly  subject 
to  the  rules  of  regular  discipHne  ;  but  inflamed  with  a  zeal  of 
great  fervour  against  those  who  would  act  contrary  ;  wherefore 
also  he  made  a  fair  ending  of  his  life." 

The  fame  of  Gsedmon's  poem  soon  spread.  "  Others  after 
him,"  as  Bede  tells  us,  "  tried  to  make  religious  poems."  He 
was  thus  the  founder  of  a  school  of  poets,  which  handed  on  the 
traditions  of  his  work  to  that  later  school  of  Saxon  poets  of 
whom  Cynewulf  was  the  chief.  (See  next  chapter.)  It  seems 
certain  that  many  copies  of  Caedmon's  poem  were  made,  but 
what  became  of  them  we  do  not  know.  We  read  that  King 
Alfred,  in  the  ninth  century,  had  copies  sent  to  him  from  the 
North,  and  we  expect  that  he  gave  these  to  the  library  of  his 
school  at  Winchester  ;  but  all  trace  of  them  is  lost.  We  should 
have  no  knowledge  at  all  of  the  earliest  English  poem  written 
in  England  (except  for  the  opening  passage  quoted  by  Bede) , 
if  it  had  not  been  for  a  happy  accident  that  restored  to  us  a 
manuscript,  part  at  least  of  which  we  may  believe  to  be  the 
work  of  Caedmon.  In  the  early  years  of  the  seventeenth 
century  Archbishop  Ussher  was  searching  diligently  for  books 
and  manuscripts  for  the  library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
and  among  those  which  he  managed  to  procure  was  one  that 
seemed  by  the  handwriting  to  belong  to  the  tenth  century. 
It  contained  poems  answering  to  the  description  given  by  Bede 
of  those  written  by  Caedmon.  The  Archbishop  gave  the 
manuscript  to  Francis  Dujon  (whose  name  in  Hterature  is 
Junius,  from  whom  the  MS.  is  sometimes  called  the  Junian 
MS.).  Junius  was  a  scholar  of  I^eyden,  a  great  lover  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  language,  which  he  had  studied  diligently. 
He  had  the  manuscript  printed  at  Amsterdam  in  1650  and 
pubhshed  it  as  the  work  of  Caedmon.  He  brought  the  manu- 
script back  to  England,  and  showed  it  to  his  hterary  friends, 
chief  among  these  being  Milton.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  say 
whether  the  poem  of  the  old  Saxon  poet  had  any  influence 
upon  the  work  of  his  seventeenth-century  successor  :  but  we 
30 


A  Scribe  Writing 
From  a  MS.  of  the  XVth  century  in  the  British  Museum 


3" 


V 


IP       CiEDMON'S    PARAPHRASE 

like  to  think  of  the  interest  with  which  Milton,  absorbed 
as  he  was  in  the  poHtical  struggles  of  the  time  and  already- 
conscious  of  the  first  warning  symptoms  of  the  disease  which 
brought  his  blindness,  must  have  scanned  the  newly  discovered 
treasure  brought  him  by  his  friend.  We  know  that  he  must  have 
appreciated  keenly  the  fine  descriptive  passages  of  the  elder 
poet ;  we  can  fancy  him  reading  them  and  giving  them  some- 
thing of  the  majestic  movement  which  marked  his  own  verse ; 
and  we  hke  to  imagine  that  certain  turns  of  expression  and 
descriptive  touches  in  his  Paradise  Lost  came  from  hngering 
memories  of  the  work  of  this  brother-poet  who  had  lived  a 
thousand  years  before. 

The  manuscript,  at  first  accepted  without  reserve  as  the  work 
of  Caedmon,  was  at  a  later  time  subjected  to  criticism.  Some 
critics  say  that  not  a  Hne  was  written  by  Caedmon,  others 
allow  him  some  share  in  it.  It  seems  to  be  certain  that  he 
did  not  write  the  whole,  but  general  opinion  assigns  to  him 
the  first  and  oldest  part — Genesis,  as  it  is  called.  We  may 
safely  call  this  Caedmon's  paraphrase.  But  it  is  not  as  a 
paraphrase  that  the  work  is  valuable.  The  passages  which 
are  of  the  highest  poetic  merit  are  those  in  which  the  writer 
leaves  his  original,  and  gives  expression  to  his  own  ideas, 
or  describes  the  experiences  of  his  own  life.  He  gives  to  the 
events  of  which  he  tells  the  setting  famihar  to  him  in  his  wild 
northern  home.  When  he  describes  the  deluge  in  the  time  of 
Noah,  it  is  clear  that  his  thoughts  turn  to  the  storms  which 
so  often  beat  upon  the  coastlands  of  Northumbria  : 

Then  sent  forth  the  I«ord 
Heavy  rain  from  heaven  ;  eke  he  hugely  let 
All  the  welling  burns  on  the  world  throng  in 
Out  of  every  earth  vein  ;  let  the  ocean  streams 
Swarthy,  sound  aloud  !     Then  upstepped  the  sea 
O'er  the  shore-stead  walls.     Strong  was  he  and  wroth 
Who  the  waters  wielded,  who  with  his  wan  wave 
Cloaked  and  covered  then  all  the  sinful  children 
Of  this  middle  earth. 

The  battle  passages  contained  in  the  poem  might  be  de- 
scriptions of  the  fierce  encounters  which  had  taken  place 
not  so  long  before  between  the  Northumbrians  and  the  Mercians. 

31 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Satan  is  pictured  as  a  great  war-leader,  and  his  group  of  falkn 
angels  resemble  the  company  of  *  war  companions  '  which, 
in  Saxon  times  gathered  in  close  comradeship  rour.d  a  prince. 
The  proud  exultation  in  strength  and  prowess,  the  keen  joy 
in  revenge,  remird  the  reader  sometimes  of  the  pagan  epic 
of  Beowulf ;  for  the  old  spirit  had  not  entirely  died  out  under 
the  influence  of  Christian  teaching.  But  there  are  tender  and 
pathetic  passages,  too,  which  breathe  the  pure  spirit  of  the  new 
reHgion — such  are  the  description  of  the  joys  of  heaven,  or  of 
the  repentance  of  Adam  and  Eve.  The  poem  is  worthy  to 
stand  as  the  first  great  work  of  purely  English  origin,  the  fore- 
runner of  Paradise  Lost. 


32 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   EXETER    BOOK 

I  HE  Exeter  Book  is  so  called  because,  since  about  1071, 
it  has  been  preserved  in  the  library  of  Exeter  Cathedral. 
Its  real  title  is  Mycel  Englisc  hoc  he  gehwilcum  'pingum 
on  leod-wisan  geworht,  which,  translated  into  modem  EngUsh 
is,  "A  large  EngUsh  book,  on  all  sorts  of  things,  wrought  in 
verse/'  It  was  presented  to  the  cathedral  Hbrary  by  Leofric, 
Bishop  of  Devon  and  Cornwall  and  Chancellor  to  King  Edward 
the  Confessor.  When  he  became  Bishop  in  1050,  he  found  his 
cathedral  at  Exeter  despoiled  and  neglected.  There  were 
only  five  books  in  the  Hbrary  and  few  treasures  of  any  kind  to 
give  glory  and  sanctity  to  the  famous  building.  This  state 
of  things  Ivcofric  set  himself  to  remedy,  and  among  other 
benefactions,  he  collected  and  presented  to  the  cathedral 
library  sixty  volumes,  some  written  in  EngHsh,  some  in  Latin. 
The  Hst  of  these  has  been  preserved,  and  in  it  appears  the 
Mycel  Englisc  hoc,  a  collection  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry. 

The  manuscript  dates  from  the  late  tenth  or  early  eleventh 
century,  when  the  poems  were  collected  and  written  out,  but 
many  of  them  were  composed  much  earher.  Some,  it  is  con- 
jectured, originated  from  lays  sung  by  minstrels  in  the  fourth 
century.  The  manuscript  now  consists  of  246  pages,  and, 
although  it  has  not  been  subjected  to  the  dangers  and  chances 
which  have  beset  the  Beowulf  manuscript,  it  has  not  escaped 
dilapidation.  Several  leaves  are  missing,  both  at  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  the  book,  and  the  outside  pages  are  worn  and 
ink-stained ;  these  injuries  are  probably  the  results  of  the 
book  having  been  left  for  a  considerable  time  unbound.  There 
is  a  hole  through  the  last  twelve  pages  which  looks  as  if  it 

c  33 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

had  been  burnt  by  a  piece  of  lighted  wood  or  paper  falling 
upon  the  volume. 

The  poems  contained  in  the  Exeter  Book  fall  naturally 
into  two  groups.  Those  contained  in  the  first  group  are  pagan 
in  tone  and  spirit — though  Christian  interpolations  are  to  be 
found — and  belong  to  the  period  previous  to  the  Saxon  occupa- 
tion of  England.  Some  are  thought  to  be  even  older  than 
Beowulf.  The  poems  of  the  second  group  are  Christian,  and 
most  of  them  deal  with  religious  subjects.  Chief  among  these 
are  the  poems  of  Cynewulf  and  his  followers,  who  belong  to 
the  second  half  of  the  eighth  century  and  in  whose  work  the 
influence  of  Csedmon  is  plainly  to  be  seen. 

The  oldest  poem  in  the  book  is  called  Widsith,  or  "  The  Far 
Traveller."  It  is  the  song  of  a  minstrel  who  may,  it  is  thought, 
have  lived  in  the  fourth  century.  There  were  two  classes  of 
Anglo-Saxon  minstrels — the  scop,  who  was  generally  attached 
to  the  train  of  a  king  or  noble,  and  who  composed,  as  well  as 
sang,  his  lays  ;  and  the  gleeman,  who  was  of  an  inferior  order 
and  wandered  about  the  country  singing  to  the  people  of  the 
towns  and  villages  the  songs  which  he  had,  in  most  instances, 
learnt  from  others.  Widsith  was  a  minstrel  of  the  former  class. 
*'  Many  men  and  rulers  have  I  known,"  he  sang,  *'  through  many 
strange  lands  I  have  fared,  throughout  the  spacious  earth, 
parted  from  my  kinsmen.  Therefore  I  may  sing  in  the  mead- 
hall  how  the  high-born  gave  me  gifts."  He  looked  back  over 
a  Hfe  filled  with  adventure  and  with  happiness,  and  he  sang 
his  song  in  praise  of  his  calling  and  of  the  great  men  who  had 
befriended  him.  Success  and  praise  had  followed  him,  and 
the  comradeship  of  his  fellow  craftsmen  had  made  his  Ufe 
pleasant : 

Scilling  then  and  with  him  I  in  a  voicing  clear, 
Lifted  up  the  lay  to  our  lord  the  conqueror  ; 
Ivoudly  at  the  harping  lilted  high  our  voice. 
Then  our  hearers  many,  haughty  of  their  heart. 
They  that  couth  it  well,  clearly  said  in  words 
That  a  better  lay  listed  had  they  never. 

So  he  had  gone  on  from  one  triumph  to  another — 
34 


THE   EXETER    BOOK 

Till  all  flits  away — 
Life  and  light  together — laud  who  getteth  so. 
Hath  beneath  the  heaven  high  established  power. 

The  next  poem  of  the  group — TJie  Complaint  of  Dcor — gives 
the  other  side  of  the  minstrers  hfe.  Deor,  too,  was  a  scop, 
but  he  lost  favour  with  his  lord  and  was  superseded ;  so  he 
sang  his  sad  song,  reminding  himself  that  trouble  comes  to  all 
men,  and  as  others  have  overcome  it,  so  also  may  he. 


I 


Whilom  was  I  scop  of  the  Heodenings ; 

Dear  unto  my  lord  I     Deor  was  my  name. 

Well  my  service  was  to  me  many  winters  through. 

Loving  was  my  Lord  ;  till  at  last  Heorreuda, — 

Skilled  in  song  the  man  ! — seized  upon  my  laud-right 

That  the  guard  of  eark  granted  erst  to  me. 

That  one  over^vent ;  this  also  may  I. 


The  reader  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  soon  becomes  famihar 
with  the  mournful  note  that  sounds  in  Deor's  lament.  It 
sounds  in  almost  every  work  of  those  early  times,  giving  to 
them  a  characteristic  melancholy.  The  Wanderer,  the  next 
poem  of  the  group  we  are  considering,  deals  with  a  subject 
similar  to  that  of  Deor — the  sorrows  of  a  man  who  has  lost  his 
lord.    Sadly  comes  the  mourning  note  again  : 

All  is  full  of  trouble,  all  this  realm  of  earth  I 

Doom  of  weirds  is  changing  all  the  world  below  the  skies  ; 

Here  our  foe  is  fleeting,  here  the  friend  is  fleeting. 

Fleeting  here  is  man,  fleeting  is  the  woman. 

All  the  earth's  foundation  is  an  idle  thing  become. 

The  Seafarer,  which  follows  The  Wanderer,  tells  of  the  hard 
and  painful  life  led  by  him  who  must  seek  his  daily  bread  in 
the  "  ice-cold  ocean  paths"  to  which  he  is  yet  drawn  with  an 
irresistible  fascination. 

For  the  harp  he  has  no  heart,  nor  for  having  of  the  rings. 
Nor  in  woman  is  his  weal ;  in  the  world  he's  no  delight. 
Nor  in  anything  whatever  save  the  tossing  o'er  the  waves. 
O  for  ever  he  has  longing  who  is  urged  toward  the  sea. 

These  four  poems  are  the  chief  of  what  may  be  called  the 
old  pagan  group.  Of  the  Christian  poems  contained  in  the 
Exeter  Book  the  most  important,  as  has  been  said,  are  those 
written  by  the  poet  Cynewulf.  Cynewulf  and  Caedmon  are 
the  only  poets  of  these  early  times  of  whose  personahty  we 

35 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

know  anything,  and  even  of  them  we  do  not  know  very  much. 
Cynewulf  was  probably  a  Northumbrian,  born  between  720  and 
730.  From  his  writings  we  learn  that  he  was  a  scop  in  the 
service  of  a  great  lord.  He  was  certainly  a  scholar  who  under- 
stood Latin,  and  had  studied  the  best  Latin  works  of  the  time 
From  various  references  in  his  works  a  kind  of  biography  has 
been  built  up,  which,  however,  has  little  soHd  evidence  to  rest 
upon.  It  is  conjectured  that  he  was,  during  his  youth,  a  gay 
and  thoughtless  singer  who  dehghted  in  the  splendour  of  noble 
houses  and  in  the  company  of  the  great ;  that  in  his  later 
middle  age  he  had  a  vision  of  the  holy  rood,  which  turned  his 
heart  to  Christ,  and  that  from  thenceforward  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  writing  of  poetry  which  should  serve  to  advance  the 
glory  of  God.  "  I  am  old,''  he  says  in  one  of  his  later  poems, 
*'  and  ready  to  depart,  having  woven  wordcraft  and  pondered 
deeply  in  the  darkness  of  the  world.  Once  I  was  gay  in  the 
hall  and  received  gifts,  appled  gold  and  treasures.  Yet  was  I 
buffeted  with  care,  fettered  by  sins,  beset  with  sorrows,  until 
the  Lord  of  all  might  and  power  bestowed  on  me  grace,  and 
revealed  to  me  the  mystery  of  the  holy  cross.  Now  know  I 
that  the  joys  of  life  are  fleeting,  and  that  the  Judge  of  all  the 
world  is  at  hand  to  deal  to  every  man  his  doom." 

Gynewulf's  Crist  is  the  first  poem  in  the  Exeter  Book.  It  is 
in  three  parts,  the  first  telling  of  the  coming  of  Christ  to  earth, 
the  second  of  His  ascension,  the  third  of  His  second  coming  and 
of  the  Judgment  Day.  An  intense  personal  feeling  of  religion 
marks  the  work  throughout  and  gives  it  a  simple  but  lofty 
beauty.  The  closing  passage  describes  the  heavenly  home  to 
which  the  poet  hopes  soon  to  follow  his  Master. 

Rest  for  righteous  doers,  rest  withouten  strife. 

For  the  good  and  blessed.     Without  gloom  the  day, 

Bright  and  full  of  blossoming  ;  bliss  that's  sorrowless  ; 

Peace  all  friends  between  ever  without  enmity. 

Love  that  envieth  not  in  the  union  of  the  saints 

For  the  happy  ones  of  Heaven  !     Hunger  is  not  there,  nor  thirst. 

Sleep  nor  heavy  sickness,  nor  the  scorching  of  the  sun, 

Neither  cold  nor  care,  but  the  happy  company 

Sheenest  of  all  hosts  shall  enjoy  for  aye 

Grace  of  God  their  King,  Glory  with  their  Lord. 

36 


THE   EXETER   BOOK 

The  second  part  of  Crist  is  signed  with  Cynewulf 's  name  in  the 
Runic  letters  used  by  the  old  Teutonic  race.  The  next  poem, 
Juliana,  is  signed  in  the  same  manner.  It  is  the  story  of  a 
Christian  martyr  in  the  time  of  the  Kmperor  Maximian.  Three 
other  poems  in  the  Exeter  Book,  though  not  signed,  are  thought 
to  have  been  written  by  Cynewulf  or  by  the  school  of  poets 
that  followed  him.  These  are  The  Life  of  St.  Guthlac,  Azarias, 
and  The  Phcenix.  Azarias  contains  the  beautiful  lines  describ- 
ing the  effect  of  the  coming  of  the  angel  to  the  fiery  furnace 
into  which  Daniel  and  his  two  companions  have  been  thrust. 

Then  'twas  in  the  oven  when  the  angel  came. 
Windy  cool  and  winsome,  to  the  weather  likest 
When  is  sent  to  earth  in  the  summer  tide. 
Dropping  down  of  dew-rain  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

In  The  Phcenix  occurs  what  is  judged  to  be  Cynewulf 's 
finest  descriptive  passage  : 

Winsome  is  the  wold  there  ;  there  the  wealds  are  green 
Spacious  spread  below  the  skies  ;  there  may  neither  snow  nor  rain, 
Nor  the  furious  air  of  frost,  nor  the  flare  of  fire. 
Nor  the  headlong  squall  of  hail,  nor  the  hoar-frost's  fall. 
Nor  the  burning  of  the  sun,  nor  the  bitter  cold. 
Nor  the  weather  over-warm,  nor  the  winter  shower. 
Do  their  wrong  to  any  wight — but  the  wold  abides 
Ever  happy,  healthful  there.     Honoured  is  that  land. 
All  ablown  with  blossoms. 

A  curious  and  characteristic  form  of  composition  in  Old 
Enghsh,  which  was  imitated  from  I^atin  examples,  was  the 
riddle.  The  Exeter  Book  contains  eighty-nine  of  these  riddles. 
They  have  been  attributed,  though  somewhat  doubtfully,  to 
Cynewulf.  Some  of  them  are  of  real  beauty,  and  show  high 
imaginative  power.    The  thirtieth  riddle  is  : 

I  have  seen  a  wight  wonderfully  shapen. 

Bearing  up  a  booty,  in  between  his  horns, 

A  Ivift- Vessel  flashing  light  and  with  loveliness  bedecked. 

Bearing  home  this  booty  brought  from  his  war-marching  I 

He  would  in  the  burg  build  himself  a  bower. 

Set  it  skilfully  if  it  so  might  be. 

Then  there  came  a  wondrous  wight  o'er  the  world-wall's  roof, — 

Elnown  to  all  he  is  of  the  earth's  indwellers — 

Snatched  away  his  war-spoil,  and  his  will  against. 

Homeward  drove  the  wandering  wretch  !     Thence  he  westward  went. 

With  a  vengeance  faring  hastened  further  on. 

37 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Dust  arose  to  heaven,  dew  fell  on  the  earth. 

Onward  went  the  night,  and  not  one  of  men. 

Of  the  wandering  of  that  wight  ever  wotted  more. 

The  answer  to  this  riddle  is,  The  new  moon  with  the  old  moon 
in  its  arms,  driven  from  the  sky  by  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

The  other  poems  contained  in  the  Exeter  Book  are  of  minor 
importance.  There  is  a  fragment  of  a  Physiologus,  a  charac- 
teristic composition  of  these  early  times,  in  which  descriptions 
of  various  beasts  are  first  given  and  afterward  an  allegorical 
meaning  supplied  for  each  detail.  The  panther,  the  whale,  and 
the  partridge  are  thus  dealt  with  in  the  Exeter  Book.  There 
are  also  a  few  short  religious  poems,  and  a  collection  of  proverbs 
that  occupies  206  lines. 

The  Exeter  Book  may  be  called  our  first  English  anthology. 
It  is  valuable  first  by  reason  of  the  real  beauty  of  many  of 
the  poems  it  contains,  especially  of  those  attributed  to  Cyne- 
wulf.  It  is  valuable  also  for  its  historical  importance  as  a 
witness  to  an  age  long  gone  by. 

[The  quotations  from  the  Exeter  Book  are  taken  from  Mr. 
Stopford  Brooke's  Early  English  Literature,  by  kind  permission 
of  the  author.] 


38 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEDELS  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY  OF 
THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

U^TT^HE  Ecclesiastical  History  cannot,  in  one  sense,  claim  to 
I  be  an  English  book,  for  it  was  originally  written  in 
JL  lyatin.  It  was,  however,  written  in  England,  its 
author  was  Enghsh,  its  subject  is  the  Enghsh  race.  It  was 
translated  into  the  Enghsh  language  by  King  Alfred  about 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  it  was  written,  so  that  a  version 
in  the  vulgar  tongue  has  existed  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years.  It  was  the  avowed  model  of  the  chroniclers  of  succeed- 
ing ages,  who  borrowed  its  facts  and  imitated  its  style.  For 
these  reasons,  and  because  the  history  is  of  so  great  value  and 
interest  to  Englishmen,  even  in  the  present  day,  it  is  classed 
here  as  an  English  book. 

Its  story  takes  us  back  to  that  short,  brilliant  period  in  the 
history  of  Northumbria  during  which  she  became  a  centre 
of  intellectual  activity  such  as  had  not  before  been  known  in 
England.  The  day  of  her  political  supremacy  was  over. 
King  Ecgfrith  had  fallen  in  the  battle  of  Nechtansmere  685,  and 
the  glory  of  Northumbria  had  departed.  The  scene  of  the 
struggle  for  supremacy  in  England  had  shifted  from  the  north 
to  the  south.  Northumbria  for  a  time  was  left  in  peace  to 
recover,  as  best  she  might,  from  the  blow  she  had  received. 
Steadily  and  quietly  she  won  for  herself  a  new  supremacy, 
the  glory  of  which  has,  in  the  eyes  of  the  ages  that  have 
followed,  caused  her  earlier  triumphs  to  grow  pale.  She 
became  a  centre  of  learning  and  culture.  Scholars  flocked  to 
the  schools  established  within  her  borders,  and  the  fame  of  her 
teachers  was  spread  far  and  wide.    She  founded  a  literature, 

39 


EiNGLISH   LITERATURE 

and  she  fostered,  in  a  noble  and  liberal  spirit,  all  the  forms  of 
intellectual  activity  which  had  arisen  in  her  dominions.  There 
seemed  some  stirring  influence  abroad  urging  men  to  great 
efforts.  History  tends  to  show  that  the  periods  most  favour- 
able to  literary  activity  are  those  which  follow  a  long  term  of 
conflict  and  disturbance,  when  the  stimulus  of  the  struggle 
remains,  though  the  burden  of  it  has  passed.  So  it  was  in 
the  days  of  the  Elizabethans ;  so  it  was  in  the  days  of  the 
Saxons  of  Northumbria. 

Rehgion  had  a  great  part  in  promoting  this  intellectual 
movement.  The  fervour  of  the  previous  period  had  by  no 
means  passed  away,  though,  in  664,  after  the  Synod  of  Whitby, 
the  Irish  monks  had  left  Northumbria.  Their  influence  re- 
mained, and  the  Roman  Church  which  superseded  the  Irish, 
brought  men  who,  though  of  different  nature,  and  working  by 
different  methods,  were  in  devotion  and  earnestness  little  behind 
their  Irish  brethren.  Of  these  one  of  the  most  renowned  is 
Benedict  Biscop,  who  founded  the  great  twin  monasteries — St. 
Peter  at  Wearmouth  and  St.  Paul  at  Jarrow.  It  is  with  these 
two  monasteries  that  the  greatest  of  all  Northumbrians  scholars 
— Bseda,  or  as  he  is  known  in  history,  the  Venerable  Bede — 
is  connected. 

"  I  was  born,"  Bede  tells  us,  "  on  the  lands  of  the  same 
monastery  [that  is,  of  the  allied  monasteries  of  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul],  and  when  I  was  seven  years  of  age  I  was  entrusted 
by  my  relatives  to  the  most  reverend  Abbot  Benedict  [of  Wear- 
mouth]  to  be  brought  up,  and  afterwards  to  Ceolfrid  [of 
Jarrow]  ;  and  dwelling  all  the  succeeding  time  of  my  Hfe  under 
the  roof  of  the  same  monastery,  I  gave  all  my  attention  to 
the  study  of  the  Scriptures ;  and  while  observing  the  regular 
discipline,  and  the  daily  charge  of  singing  in  the  church,  I 
always  took  delight  in  learning,  teaching  and  writing."  In 
these  few  words  the  simple  history  of  Bede's  uneventful  life  is 
told.  He  never  left  the  monastery  of  Jarrow,  and  he  took  no 
part  in  the  great  national  events  of  his  times.  "  Ivcarning, 
teaching  and  writing  "  he  passed  his  Hfe,  and  it  is  as  scholar, 
teacher,  and  author  that  we  remember  him. 
40 


: ^ 


aattSn  Uinodni 

^  t^j        irrro:  ^cUrccnicc  qitccm 
jmnsulcc  vcavne'  ccnre-<!rn9copcc 


ttalanornttj-  •,  Gmvjrim  i^utcwnj     •-  JK 
amim'iro  pjia;^:  piMyt>i^  af«^ 

TV>|rtm3t<t:  u.:fwpr>3  jnoniaJni^ 
yfaMVt)^-  ]4uUanvi!  ^p^  rcU 


»>r^«W 


v^^' 


Page  from  MS.  copy  of  Bede's  "Ecclesiastical  History 

(Vlllth  century) 

In  the  British  Museum 


40 


IP 

BEDE'S  ECCLESIASTICAL   HISTORY 

The  fame  of  his  teaching  drew  crowds  of  eager  learners  to 
the  quiet  Northumbrian  monastery.  Six  hundred  English 
monks,  besides  strangers  from  other  lands  made  up  his  school. 
Groups  of  them  gathered  round  him  in  the  great  cloister  which 
formed  the  centre  of  the  daily  life  of  a  mediaeval  monastery. 
The  cloister  was  a  quadrangle,  enclosed  by  the  high  walls  of  the 
monastery  buildings  ;  all  round  it  ran  a  covered  arcade,  and 
in  the  middle  was  a  grass  plot  or  flower-garden.  It  was  in  the 
cloister  that  the  monk  of  these  days  spent  nearly  all  the  time 
not  occupied  by  services  in  the  church  or  meals  in  the  refectory. 
Here  the  children  who  came  to  the  convent  for  instruction  were 
taught ;  here  monks  worked  at  the  copying  and  illumination 
of  manuscripts  ;  here  the  psalms  for  the  church  services  were 
practised  ;  and  amid  all  the  stir  and  bustle,  soHtary  monks 
essayed  the  difficult  task  of  fixing  their  minds  on  devotional 
exercises  and  meditating  upon  sacred  things. 

We  may  picture  Bede  seated  in  the  sunny  cloister  of  J  arrow 
with  a  group  of  his  scholars  gathered  round  him.  His  gentle, 
kindly  face  is  alight  with  enthusiasm  as  he  lovingly  handles  one 
of  the  precious  manuscripts  with  which  the  zeal  of  Benedict 
Biscop  has  provided  the  convent  hbrary.  Something  of  his 
fervour  passes  to  the  scholars  to  whom  he  is  discoursing,  and 
within  them  begins  to  kindle  the  same  deep  love  of  learning 
which  has  given  beauty  and  dignity  to  the  quiet  life  of  their 
teacher.  I^ater,  they  sit  down  to  their  copying,  or  to  the  study 
of  the  treatises  on  theology,  astronomy,  physics,  music, 
philosophy,  grammar,  rhetoric  or  medicine,  which  Bede,  from 
the  great  and  varied  knowledge  gathered  by  his  studious 
research,  has  written  for  them.  From  time  to  time  a  scholar 
brings  some  difficulty  he  has  found  in  his  work,  to  the  teacher, 
and  receives  from  him  ready  help,  with  perhaps  a  kindly,  half- 
pla3rful  word  of  praise  or  admonition. 

When  winter  came — and  even  in  the  sheltered  southern  side 
of  the  cloister  the  keen  winter  winds  numbed  the  fingers  of  the 
shivering  monks — it  is  probable  that  Bede,  with  a  small  party  of 
his  scholars,  was  provided  with  a  cell  or  small  room  within  the 
convent.    This  was  an  indulgence  not  common  in  those  days, 

41 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

for  the  monks  were  expected  to  inure  themselves  to  hardships 
and  rise  superior  to  the  love  of  comfort.  But  it  is  probable  i 
that,  at  least  in  the  later  years  of  his  life,  Bede  enjoyed  some  i 
relaxation  of  the  rigours  of  the  ordinary  monastic  life.  It  was  i 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  cell  that  his  great  work,  the  Ecclesiastical  | 
History,  was  probably  written.  It  was  undertaken,  Bede  tells  j 
us,  chiefly  by  the  advice  of  Albinus,  Abbot  of  the  monastery  of  ! 
Canterbury.  From  Albinus  Bede  received  the  records  and  i 
letters  relating  to  the  coming  of  Augustine,  and  the  spread  of  \ 
Christianity  in  Kent.  In  similar  ways  he  gained  information ; 
concerning  the  other  English  kingdoms,  and  he  is  careful  in  each  j 
case  to  state  the  authority  on  which  he  relies.  "  I  humbly  i 
entreat  the  reader,"  he  says,  "  that  if  anywhere  in  this  that  I^ 
have  written  he  finds  any  things  set  down  otherwise  than  as^ 
the  truth  is,  he  will  not  impute  this  to  me,  since  according  to;^ 
the  true  rule  of  history,  I  have  laboured  sincerely  to  commit  to^ 
writing,  for  the  instruction  of  posterity,  such  things  as  I  collected 
from  common  report."  ^ 

The  best  passages  in  the  book,  however,  are  the  accounts  of 
events  which  have  come  under  Bede's  personal  observation,  i 
He  tells  his  stories  in  a  style  so  clear,  straightforward  and ; 
simple,  yet  of  such  perfect  art,  that  the  reader  cannot  help  : 
being  charmed.  Throughout,  the  personality  of  the  writer  | 
appears  in  all  he  says.  We  know  more  of  Bede  when  we  have 
read  his  great  book  than  it  is  possible  to  know  of  some  writers  ] 
the  records  of  whose  lives  are  full  and  complete.  His  gentle,  j 
sunny  nature,  the  wisdom  and  nobihty  of  his  aims,  his  absolute  j 
sincerity  and  complete  unselfishness  all  become  clear  to  us.  ■ 
The  Ecclesiastical  History  deserves  a  high  place  among  the  | 
books  of  England.  "If,"  says  Dr.  Rhodes  James,  in  The  | 
Cambridge  History  of  Literature,  "  a  panegyric  were  likely  to  j 
induce  our  readers  to  turn  to  it  for  themselves,  that  panegyric  i 
should  be  attempted  here."  It  is  hoped  that  this  short  account  I 
of  the  writer  and  his  book  may  lead  many  to  hold  the  history  of  ; 
the  old  Northumbrian  monk  in  honoured  remembrance,  and  to  \ 
read  carefully  some  selections,  at  least,  from  its  pages. 

Four  years  after  the  History  was  finished  Bede's  long  and 

42  ; 


BEDE'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY 

useful  life  came  to  an  end.  His  disciple  Cuthbert  gives,  in  a 
letter  to  Cuthwin,  an  account  of  the  last  days  of  their  "  father 
and  master,  whom  God  loved."  "  During  these  days,"  says 
Cuthbert,  **  he  laboured  to  compose  two  works  well  worthy  to  be 
remembered,  viz.,  he  translated  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  .  .  . 
into  our  own  tongue  for  the  benefit  of  the  Church  ;  and  some 
collections  out  of  the  Book  of  Notes  of  Bishop  Isidorus.  .  .  . 
And  on  the  shining  of  the  morn,  that  is,  at  the  fourth  hour,  he 
diligently  charged  us  to  write  what  we  had  begun  ;  and  this 
was  done  unto  the  third  hour.  But  from  the  third  hour  we 
walked  in  procession,  with  the  reliques  of  the  saints,  as  the 
custom  of  the  day  demanded.  There  was,  however,  one  of  us 
with  him  who  said  to  him,  *  Most  beloved  master,  there  is  yet 
one  chapter  wanting,  and  it  seems  to  be  troubhng  you  to  ask 
you  more.  Then  he  said,  '  It  is  no  trouble.  Take  your  pen 
and  mend  it,  and  write  quickly.'  And  he  did  so.  Moreover  at 
the  ninth  hour  he  said  to  me,  *  I  have  some  things  of  value  in 
my  chest — that  is,  pepper,  napkins,  and  incense  ;  but  run 
''quickly  and  bring  the  priests  of  our  monastery  to  me,  that  I 
also  may  distribute  to  them  such  gifts  as  God  has  given  me. 
The  rich  indeed  of  this  world  aim  at  giving  gold,  silver,  and 
whatsoever  else  is  precious,  but  I  will  give  with  much  charity 
and  joy  to  my  brethren  what  God  hath  given  me.'  And  this  I 
did  with  fear  and  in  haste.  And  he  addressed  each  one,  ad- 
monishing and  entreating  them  to  say  masses  and  prayers  for 
him,  which  they  readily  promised  to  do.  Moreover  all  bewailed 
and  wept,  chiefly  because  he  had  said  that  they  should  see  his 
face  no  more  in  this  world  ;  but  they  rejoiced  in  that  he  said, 
'  It  is  time  that  I  should  return  to  Him  who  made  me,  who 
created  me,  who  formed  me  out  of  nothing.  I  have  lived  a 
long  time.  The  good  Judge  hath  well  ordained  my  life  for  me. 
The  time  for  me  to  be  set  free  is  at  hand,  for  indeed  my  soul 
much  desires  to  behold  my  Eling  Christ  in  His  beauty.*  These 
and  many  other  things  he  spoke  and  passed  the  day  in  cheerful- 
ness until  the  evening.  And  the  aforesaid  boy  said,  '  Most 
beloved  master,  one  sentence  is  still  unwritten.'  Then  he  said, 
*  Write  it  quickly.'     After  a  little  while  the  boy  said,  '  The 

43 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

sentence  is  finished  now/  Then  he  said,  *  It  is  well.  You 
have  spoken  the  truth.  It  is  finished.  Take  my  head  in  your 
hands,  because  I  have  great  delight  in  sitting  opposite  my  holy 
place,  in  which  I  was  wont  to  pray,  in  order  that  I  also  sitting 
may  be  able  to  call  upon  my  Father.*  And  then  on  the  pave- 
ment of  his  cell  while  he  was  saying  *  Glory  to  the  Father  and 
the  Son  and  the  Holy  Spirit '  he  breathed  forth  his  last  breath 
from  his  body,  and  so  departed  to  the  heavenly  kingdom." 


44 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ENGLISH  CHRONICLE 

»k  FTER  the  death  of  Bede  there  was  very  Httle  attempt 
/\  at  writing  history  until  the  twelfth  century  brought 
A  \.  the  age  of  the  great  chroniclers.  In  the  monasteries 
throughout  the  country  a  diary  of  passing  events  was  more  or 
less  regularly  kept,  but  this  usually  related  only  to  affairs 
immediately  concerning  the  establishment,  and  the  record 
took  the  form  of  brief  disconnected  notes.  Occasionally  a 
fuller  entry  marked  a  more  than  ordinarily  important  piece  of 
news ;  in  such  cases  the  rule  was  that  the  person  giving  the 
information  should  write  his  version  on  a  piece  of  loose  parch- 
ment, and  put  it  inside  the  book  of  annals,  that  the  ofl&cer 
whose  special  work  it  was  to  keep  the  records  might  copy  it  in 
if  he  thought  fit.  But  in  the  period  immediately  succeeding 
that  of  Bede  the  entries  in  all  the  monastic  records  seem  to  have 
been  few  and  unimportant. 

Gradually  in  some  of  the  monasteries  these  brief  unconnected 
jottings  grew  into  something  which  might  be  called  a  chronicle. 
The  monastery  of  Winchester,  capital  of  the  West-Saxon  king- 
dom began,  in  the  eighth  century,  the  record  which  developed 
into  The  English  Chronick.  Its  early  entries  are  meagre  and 
infrequent,  but  the  simphcity  and  vigour  of  the  style  gives  the 
short  descriptions  that  are  occasionally  attempted  a  certain 
picturesqueness.  One  of  the  earliest  entries  is  under  the 
^^^^  755-  It  tells  how  Cynewulf ,  a  West  Saxon  noble,  took  the 
kingdom  of  Wessex  from  Sigebright  '*  for  unrighteous  deeds," 
and  with  the  consent  of  the  Witan  established  himself  in  Sige- 
bright's  place  ;  how  Cyneheard,  brother  of  Sigebright,  after- 
ward attacked  Cynewulf  who  had  ridden  out  with  only  a  few 

45 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

followers  to  visit  at  a  house  in  Merton ;  how  the  house  was 
surrounded  and  a  desperate  fight  fought  against  great  odds  by 
the  king's  little  band  until  they  all  lay  dead  upon  the  ground. 
This  is  probably  the  earliest  existing  piece  of  prose  in  any 
Teutonic  language. 

Early  in  the  ninth  century  an  attempt  was  made  by  the 
monks  of  Winchester  to  extend  the  record  backward  by 
writing  the  history  of  the  Saxons  in  England,  from  the  landing  ; 
of  Hengist  and  Horsa.  The  mass  of  oral  tradition  that  existed  j 
among  the  countryfolk  was  examined  in  such  imperfect  fashion  ; 
as  the  opportunities  of  the  writers  allowed.  Old  ballads  were  ] 
collected,  and  portions  of  them  incorporated  in  the  Chronicle.  ! 
From  a  literary  point  of  view,  the  result  was  not  highly  success-  j 
full,  but  as  an  historical  record  it  has  considerable  value. 

In  871  Alfred  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Wessex,  and  with  j 
his  accession  came  a  stirring  in  almost  every  department  of  : 
national  life.  The  early  part  of  his  reign  was  so  troubled  | 
by  Danish  incursions  that  internal  reform  was  impossible,  but  I 
when  peace  had  been  made  Alfred  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  1 
improvement  of  his  kingdom.  We  cannot  here  follow  him  in 
his  manifold  activities  as  statesman,  administrator,  soldier  ' 
and  social  reformer,  but  of  his  zeal  and  enthusiasm  for  letters,  : 
some  mention  must  be  made.  i 

What  the  state  of  learning  in  England  was  when  he  came  ; 
to  the  throne  his  own  often-quoted  words  will  tell.  "  When  , 
I  began  to  reign,"  he  says,  "  I  cannot  remember  one  priest  1 
south  of  the  Thames  who  could  understand  his  service-book,  ; 
and  very  few  in  other  parts  of  the  country."  The  flourishing  • 
schools  in  Northumbria  had  been  destroyed  by  the  Danes,  and  i 
learning  had  been  almost  entirely  stamped  out.  Scholars  had  , 
fled  the  country,  and  there  was  no  place  in  England  where  a  i 
man,  however  ardently  he  desired  to  learn,  could  find  capable  | 
teachers.  A  great  darkness  of  ignorance  had  fallen  on  the  | 
land.  Into  this  darkness  Alfred  strove  to  bring  light.  He  j 
brought  over  teachers  from  the  famous  Continental  schools  of  i 
Charlemagne  ;  he  established  schools  in  England,  and  taught  1 
in  them  himself  ;  he  made  laws  to  further  learning  ;  he  trans-  | 

46  \ 


'i 


f^*^' 


pi 


■f 


A  Page  from  the  MS.  of  "  The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle" 

Containing  the  account  of  the  Battle  of  Ashdown  46 

(Corpus  Christi  College,  Cambridge) 


Nf  THE  ENGLISH  CHRONICLE 
ated  into  English  famous  I^atin  works  which  he  thought  might 
be  useful  to  his  people  ;  and  he  wrote  in  his  own  vigorous  and 
direct  prose  addresses  in  which  he  strove  to  show  his  people 
how  good  and  beautiful  and  altogether  desirable  was  the  know- 
ledge they  neglected  and  despised.  He  breathed  life  into  the 
dry  bones  of  the  Winchester  annals,  and  of  a  dull  and  meagre 
record  he  made  an  inspiring  history. 

From  866  to  887  the  Chronicle  is  continuous,  no  year  being 
omitted.  The  whole  of  this  part  of  the  Chronicle  seems  to  be 
the  work  of  one  hand,  and,  not  improbably,  was  written  by 
Alfred  himself.  Toward  the  end  of  his  reign  the  early  part  of 
the  Chronicle  was  again  revised,  and  many  passages  from 
Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History  inserted  to  fill  up  gaps. 

After  the  death  of  Alfred  the  learning  he  had  worked  so 
hard  to  foster  rapidly  died  out.  Once  more  the  fierce  on- 
slaughts of  the  Danes  drove  all  save  thoughts  of  war  from 
the  minds  of  the  people.  The  monasteries  sank  back  into  a 
state  of  ignorance,  the  poets  were  silent.  The  entries  in  the 
Chronicle  during  this  period  tell  of  httle  else  but  fierce  fighting, 
disastrous  raids  on  the  countryside,  and  cruel  suffering  among 
the  people.  Yet  the  patriotic  fervour  which  was  aroused  by 
these  national  misfortunes  gives  vigour  and  fluency  to  the 
accounts,  and  makes  the  Chronicle  of  real  literary  value  in  this 
barren  period.  "  The  Chronicle  alone  marks  for  more  than 
half  a  century  the  continuance  of  literary  activity  in  England." 

During  the  middle  part  of  the  tenth  century  there  are  few 
entries,  and  these  are  of  no  great  interest,  with  the  exception  of 
several  ballads  which  are  inserted  under  the  dates  of  the 
incidents  of  which  they  treat.  Chief  of  these  is  the  ballad 
describing  the  battle  of  Brunanburh,  937,  in  which  Athelstan 
defeated  the  alHed  forces  of  Scots,  Welsh  and  Danes.  This 
ballad  is  best  known  through  Tennyson's  noble  translation. 

The  Chronicle  did  not  remain  permanently  in  the  hands  of  the 
monks  of  Winchester.  It  seems  to  have  been  taken  at  different 
times  to  various  other  monasteries,  and  collated  with  records 
kept  in  those  estabhshments  ;  and  these  new  forms  were  in 
turn  copied  and  enlarged  by  monks  of  other  districts.    So 

47 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

that  it  is  probable  a  large  number  of  copies  of  the  Chronicle, 
varying  in  details  and  in  the  attention  given  to  local  matters,  ^ 
were  made.  Several  of  these  have  come  down  to  us.  In  their  - 
essential  features,  however,  they  are  so  much  aUke  that  we  are  j 
justified  in  regarding  them  as  forming  one  book.  ^ 

Various  recensions  were  made  by  different  hands,  and  . 
ultimately  the  history  was  extended  as  far  back  as  B.C.  60. 

The  longest  of  the  various  forms  of  the  Chronicle  is  that  ! 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Peterborough  Chronicle,  and  \ 
extends  to  the  year  1154.  It  contains  the  famous  and  often-  ] 
quoted  passage  describing  the  terrible  condition  of  the  country  ^ 
in  the  days  of  Stephen. 

The  English  Chronicle  thus  covers  the  history  of  England  i 
for  more  than  two  and  a  half  centuries.     On  the  whole  the  • 
period  with  which  it  deals  is  a  dark  one,  and  the  impression  j 
left  after  reading  it  is  an  impression  of  gloom  and  disaster,   ■ 
though  the  story  is  not  without  its  brighter  passages.     Its 
Hterary  merit  is,  naturally,  very  unequal,  seeing  that  it  is  the 
work  of  many  hands.     But  its  importance  in  the  history  of 
English  prose  is  great,  and  its  importance  in  the  history  of 
the  EngUsh  nation  still  greater.     "  From  an  historical  point 
of  view  the  Chronicle  was  the  first  national,  continuous  history 
of  a  western  nation  in  its  own  language  ;  from  a  literary  point 
of  view  it  was  the  first  great  book  in  English  prose." 


48 


Middle  English   Period 


BY  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  struggle 
between  the  languages  of  the  conquering  Normans  and 
the  conquered  Saxons  was  almost  over.  The  EngUsh 
language  had  come  out  of  the  conflict  without  injury  to  its 
vigour  or  its  beauty.  The  loss  of  inflexions  had  rendered  it 
less  stiff  and  more  adaptable,  and  it  had  increased  its  resources 
by  large  plunderings  from  the  Normans.  But  it  had  become 
terribly  disorganized,  and  there  was  urgent  need  for  a  master 
hand  to  remove  the  marks  of  stress  and  strain,  to  repress  the 
exuberance  of  victory,  and  to  make  ready  the  language  of 
England  for  great  and  serious  uses. 

Yet  even  in  its  disordered  state  it  managed  to  achieve  some 
notable  pieces  of  work.  Several  dehghtful  lyrics  date  from 
this  period,  and  these  have  a  freshness,  a  gaiety  and  a  free 
musical  movement  that  the  more  sombre  spirit  of  the  earHer 
literature  could  not  compass.  The  Normans  had  introduced 
into  England  the  metrical  romance,  and  its  influence  was  I 
strong  enough  to  originate  here  a  new  form  of  Hterature.  Old 
stories  and  legends  were  worked  up  into  this  form  ;  the  stories 
of  King  Arthur,  of  Charlemagne,  of  Alexander,  and  the  Siege 
of  Troy  were  especially  popular.  ReHgion,  which,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  become  the  chief  subject  of  the  poetry  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  period,  kept  a  prominent  place  in  the  Hterature  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  long  didactic  and  moral  poems  were  common. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  came  the  work 
of  Chaucer,  which  marks  an  entirely  new  era  in  EngUsh  poetry. 
Chaucer  is  commonly  called  '  The  Father  of  EngUsh  Poetry.' 
The  title  is  perhaps  a  trifle  misleading,  for,  as  we  have  seen, 
some  work  of  high  poetic  value  had  been  produced  before 
his  time.     The  experimental  stage  was  over,  and  poetical 

D  49 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

traditions  were  established.  Yet,  in  another  sense,  the  title  is 
well  deserved.  Chaucer  is  our  first  great  poet.  He  produced 
not  one  happy  lyric,  not  a  few  noble  poetic  passages  standing 
out  from  a  mass  of  mediocre  verse,  but  a  body  of  work  of 
sustained  excellence.  He  did  not  blindly  follow  a  convention 
or  a  tradition,  either  with  regard  to  his  subject  or  his  versifica- 
tion. He  laid  the  whole  varied  experience  of  his  life  under 
contribution  for  his  poems.  He  used  a  fresh  and  flowing  metre 
full  of  clear  harmonies.  The  service  he  rendered  to  our 
English  speech  would,  of  itself,  entitle  him  to  remembrance. 
Out  of  the  chaos  he  made  order.  He  welded  the  French  and 
English  elements  which  were  existing  side  by  side,  yet  without 
union,  into  one  speech  which  was  a  perfect  medium  for  the 
expression  of  poetic  thought.  He  set  up  a  standard  which 
was  accepted  by  all  who  came  after  him.  (^  c  x5.  ^  i  U^*^ 
i-K^haucer  is  thus  the  last  and  the  greatest  of  our  mediaeval 
poets,  and  the  first  of  a  new  line  which  appeared  in  its  full  glory 
pn  the  days  of  Elizabeth.  His  work  has,  therefore,  a  peculiar 
interest  and  value  in  the  history  of  English  literature.  y^Tb^y^^^^ 

The  prose  of  the  period  consisted  chiefly  of  the  lyatin  works 
of  the  chroniclers,  until,  toward  its  close  came  Wiclif's  trans- 
*^^     lation  of  the  Bible  and  The  Travels  of  Sir  John  Mandeville.  '  - 

A  new  literary  form  which  developed  during  this  period  must 
also  be  noted.  The  twelfth  century  gave  us  our  first  example 
of  the  miracle-play,  which  marks  the  beginning  of  the  drama 
in  England.  The  miracle-play  originated  in  the  services  of  the 
Church,  into  which,  as  early  as  the  fifth  century,  an  element  of 
dramatic  representation  had  been  introduced.  For  example, 
on  Easter  morning  the  empty  sepulchre  was  shown  :  the  holy 
women  came  with  their  spices  and  ointments,  and  were  met  by 
the  angel.  Mary  spoke  with  the  risen  Christ,  believing  him  to 
be  the  gardener  ;  St.  John  and  St.  Peter  entered  the  tomb. 
The  extension  of  this  practice  produced  a  play,  which  was 
intended  to  illustrate  some  doctrine  of  the  Church,  or  some 
event  of  the  Bible  story.  At  first  the  plays  were  performed  in 
the  church,  with  priests  for  actors  ;  they  closely  followed  the 
Scripture  narrative,  and  made  little  attempt  at  dramatic 
SO 


MIDDLE   ENGLISH    PERIOD 

characterization,  and  still  less  at  literary  excellence.  After  a 
time,  however,  the  representation  passed  from  the  control  of 
the  clergy  and  came  under  that  of  the  trade  guilds  and  corpora- 
tions. The  plays  were  acted  in  open  spaces  in  the  city,  and 
laymen  were  engaged  as  actors.  Under  these  circumstances 
many  new  developments  took  place.  The  plays  lost  some  of 
their  didactic  purpose,  incidents  being  chosen  with  a  view  to 
their  dramatic  effect  rather  than  to  their  doctrinal  significance  ; 
characters  and  incidents  for  which  the  Scriptures  gave  no 
warrant  were  introduced  :  even  a  comic  element  found  its  way 
into  the  story. 

It  was  at  a  comparatively  advanced  stage  of  its  develop- 
ment that  the  religious  drama  found  its  way  into  England.  It 
was  introduced  from  the  Continent  by  the  Normans.  We  have 
a  record  of  a  play  dealing  with  the  life  of  St.  Katherine  being 
performed  at  Dunstable  about  mo,  but  the  play  itself  is  lost. 
It  was  not  until  the  fourteenth  century  that  the  miracle-play 
reached  its  full  development,  and  that  the  great  '  cycles '  or 
series  of  plays  came  into  existence.  Four  of  these  cycles — those 
of  Chester,  Coventry,  Wakefield  and  York — have  come  down  to 
us ;  and  it  is  almost  certain  that  other  large  towns  possessed 
similar  collections,  which  were  acted  on  certain  stated  festivals 
during  the  year. 

The  greater  freedom  of  treatment  allowed  in  the  later  miracle- 
plays  led  to  the  introduction  of  various  allegoricjal  characters  ; 
and  this  element,  once  introduced,  developed  rapidly.  Plays 
were  written  in  which  all  the  characters  were  of  this  nature, 
and  these  plays  were  called  moralities.  In  these,  various  vices 
and  virtues,  and  such  abstractions  as  time,  riches,  and  death, 
were  personified.  The  morahty  plays,  although  they  never 
became  as  popular  as  the  miracle-plays  from  which  they  were 
derived,  were  acted  until  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  gradually  dying  out  when  the  regular  drama,  which 
for  more  than  a  century  had  been  growing  up  side  by  side  with 
them,  had  reached  a  very  advanced  stage  of  development. 


51 


I 


^^ 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  CHRONICA  MAJORA  OF 
MATTHEW  PARIS 


THE  Chronica  Majora,  like  the  Ecclesiastical  History,  is 
written  in  I^atin,  but  the  reasons  for  including  it  among 
'  English  books  '  are  as  strong  as  in  the  former  case. 
The  Chronica  Majora  is  a  type  of  a  whole  class  of  books  written 
in  England  during  several  centuries,  and  these  form  a  connect- 
ing link  between  the  English  Chronicle  and  the  *  history '  of 
modern  times.  Very  little  prose  of  any  other  kind  was  written 
during  this  period.  Moreover,  the  writing  of  the  Chronica 
Majora  illustrates  an  important  phase  of  the  literary  life  of  the 
country,  and  shows  how  literature  was  kept  alive  during  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  thus  helps  to  bridge  over  the  gap  which  inter- 
venes between  the  Anglo-Saxon  period  and  that  foreshadowing 
of  the  great  Revival  of  learning  which  came  in  the  days  of 
Chaucer. 

The  last  entry  in  the  English  Chronicle  was  made,  as  we  have 
seen,  in  1154.  But  before  that  time  the  task  of  writing  the 
annals  of  England  had  been  taken  up  by  a  new  order  of 
chroniclers.  William  I  and  his  Norman  followers  had  con- 
quered, and  settled  in  the  country,  and  the  Normans  brought 
to  the  work  of  Chronicle-writing  quahties  which  the  native 
writers  did  not  possess.  They  had  a  natural  taste  for  history, 
and  by  virtue  of  their  lyatin  origin  they  had  also  a  power 
of  ordered,  logical  thought  which  was  not  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  Saxo;is.  The  chronicles  of  the  Normans 
were  still  written  in  I^atin,  and  at  first  the  writers  dealt  with 
English  history  after  the  manner  of  foreigners,  taking,  on  all 
questions,  the  Continental  rather  than  the  insular  point  of 

S3 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

view.  But  as  the  years  went  on,  and  Norman  and  Saxon 
were  gradually  welded  into  one  nation,  the  tone  of  the  Chronicles 
changed.  They  were  still  written  in  I,atin,  for  the  idea  that 
the  vulgar  tongue  could  be  used  for  serious  literary  purposes 
had  not  been  accepted,  indeed  hardly  conceived,  by  any  of  the 
scholars  of  Europe.  But  they  became  distinctly  English  in 
tone  and  sentiment,  and  it  is  quite  apparent  that  in  the  minds 
of  the  writers,  there  was  now  little  difference  between  Norman 
and  Saxon.  The  interests  of  the  two  races  were  regarded  as 
identical. 

The  work  of  the  twelfth  and  early  thirteenth  century 
chroniclers  shows  great  and  notable  qualities.  They  wrote 
real  histories,  not  simply  annals.  They  had  a  keen  historic 
sense,  which  taught  them  how  to  select  and  arrange  their 
material,  to  trace  the  connexion  of  cause  and  effect,  and  to 
judge  rightly  of  the  importance  of  particular  events  in  in- 
fluencing the  course  of  affairs.  English  historians  of  modern 
times  find  their  works  invaluable,  and  even  writers  on  Con- 
tinental history  are  often  glad  to  use  them,  for  no  other  Euro- 
pean country  possesses  chronicles  of  the  Middle  Ages  which 
can  approach  the  English  in  fullness,  accuracy  and  lucidity. 

Monks  were  still,  for  the  most  part,  the  chief  chronicle 
writers.  But  they  were  monks  who  held  a  very  different 
position  from  that  held  by  the  unknown  and  sequestered  writers 
of  the  English  Chronicle.  They  were  learned,  but  they  were 
not  simply  scholars  ;  they  were  men  of  the  world.  Many  of 
them  had  been  employed  by  the  King  in  State  affairs,  and 
had  spent  a  considerable  time  at  the  court.  They  were  in  the 
midst  of  the  stir  and  movement  of  public  life,  and  they  took  a 
keen  interest  in  the  poHtics  of  the  day.  This  first-hand  know- 
ledge and  personal  enthusiasm  are  clearly  shown  in  their 
works. 

From  the  fame  of  these  chroniclers  the  monasteries  where 
they  lived  gained  an  added  importance.  St.  Albans  Abbey 
was  especially  noted  for  its  chronicle,  which  was  mainly  the 
work  of  two  men — Roger  of  Wendover  and  Matthew  Paris. 
St.  Albans  was  one  of  the  richest  and  most  important  of  the 

54 


nrnfcv^M^nodiint  ©fcJrn  fin  <^iutv*liC1«rtK> 
t  d»  ^dlt^^lmlfe!r »  ptOni  m  W  Da&fltlni 

i»nc  qtan  infcof  torilir  ftifatJuA;  tj(»in>mir 

fttJtrt  cfma  \K  tr  fiutbtr  ^^iwntr- V^  \n- 

rnUmicw'&ictr  fii^fttTilt;'-  niup  mr  vpiihiri"^ 
marrdiSTofeTreiip  iijr  nir.r  tinffWdjjl'findf^frfin" 

TO  ntgnfiBfilw  uniufis  fnV»*irrb;ni<i^>o 

in*  iir  i>i^»tr  ftfr  nattn  ^t?  ♦tm  >tV<irtir  1 

mtm-jftrpKrtnf  ifiriffiii^jl'ilttWTn-fflrrir 
ipr  Orowv  oute  Tprib:  .^o^iifil'v  iianiantv 
?«ftn:Jh<i  frill  ffinmf  lU^inntUnt  irWjtn} 

rtlitru'r  rmJnicnKi  \n  iidicTTr |»  pnl  fa 

IrpatJCi-  f«^-  J  Ihil'ltrtirnu^sna  a-jxr  «l'  CR?>f 

m  Utc  rcnp«nKi'  l^iir  .ul  f  htx  U  fut- Jn^" 
Wmoo  Cdlli5c,vr.iniuir  i\c  m^uRft-  u«r 
fuitft  >X9>  l>\fiaitiitii>ufen  P-ct  w  alcin  S" 
a  *tC\iinf  ^immnrcr  •  .il'ntiJ>mfl-.>Wii»r 
T^^eljA  <|iiaf»  Umii^  wptnlwrtjiuouw 

tt^r  mna  uVn-jj^.c  Ibtturn  fcr  ab  mS 
Uf  <KucnJbtitcf  iuinAf  c  .rinqjcrlrtfAnKJ 


nmfilcfofumK  AiJtRnnirrpiftrecar      ^ 

(©uunmbtmk  ><nf' uc^Vuiroil  fc  pfiuf 
WhtaeiS'.St  qb'  Unnofii  cfi^  j  ^lrf  uttiit 
tr- A  4  raAajElilrtroxc  J^ulHr  fibi  inj;ili » 
ctlm«7pirr»»rcft  »i?J>trthn"tv^n,^Knv 
Pi'fiuifm  tic  i:;ii>itJ)M  i^f  li  ua-i'ia  uj 

Aiti  mTtf  Cnnnt'i  iuaiibiiujij  ii5h'h« 

r4lK{tu)tdnnR<  Bufli  *;  Im'l  Miumj-ta' 
uun  cuitni  <ltdlr  4  pSp  •'<^-  maninftm     i 

ai+tnirrf  ttantnAjT  dTcm  sl'jyjpnfta    r   ' 

rnJ.»nfriruBpitcnfi.'iic>'K't{'  I'b  c;Ui^\ 
lmS>  T<ibtm  tn^  cof  y  Ktrri  ir  if  t  nrginniT" 
<c  Hj  R  ittrf:^^!  ^St  ^^  J*  Am- f<iin<?fe 
BPvudm  »vi«:n,f>  k  inur  >tv  :r  r^^iw  Ja  i^ 

tKomfphra  tioiicnnn  Aial^iwJhTtr:  o« 

\'tfimsnmi^itCttfitnbi»b«mbihf8>r 


SfhknnA  ?  tncsnlnaf  ioptidsrt  ntt  hi^bn- 
.^  i.W.  HWi«oVc\"vUniif  l«>6  -nWoniiC^y 
tmh:<»>»pu.««f  olTw  «filia  bcnnu  fcy^  S 
n5l«tei^*lol  crtm.v:(ttTt  Mm.^  cctt% 

,i^>:  Olmr  T  lU*  pftc  n*Knf«"»nf  f  tiro 
|«i^  (fvi-Vn-  qji&c  oM'  t  tnastwgtwftctnf 


ratw  pItdW9^  ^im9  AfiB^'  »^V>«<' 
,j>fautur  f  .:ii;  no  fcr'wrn  c^'rc:n;:iam  W' 


? 


Page  of  the  MS.  of  "  Chronica  Majora  "  at  the  point  where  the 

Author's  work  breaks  off  in  1259  54 

The  illustration  is  a  portrait  of  Matthew  Paris  upon  his  deathbed  and  is 
thought  to  be  by  himself.     From  the  Royal  MS,  in  the  British  Museum 


CHRONICA   MAJORA 

English  monastic  establishments.  Its  situation  enabled  its 
inmates  to  keep  in  touch  with  all  the  great  movements  of  the 
time.  A  constant  stream  of  travellers,  passing  to  or  from 
Ivondon,  sought,  at  the  Abbey,  the  hospitahty  always  so  freely 
given  to  strangers,  and  these  brought  the  latest  news  of  what 
was  going  on  in  the  capital. 

The  office  of  historiographer  at  St.  Albans  Abbey  was  created 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century.  It  was  first  held  by 
Roger  of  Wendover.  He  compiled,  from  old  documents  and 
traditions,  a  chronicle  beginning  at  the  Norman  Conquest  and 
going  on  to  liis  own  day.  He  was  industrious  and  painstaking 
in  all  that  he  did,  and  that  part  of  the  chronicle  which  is  his 
own  original  work  shows  that  he  possessed  many  of  the  gifts 
which  distinguished  the  chroniclers  of  the  age. 

While  Roger  of  Wendover  was  diligently  fulfilling  the  duties 
of  his  office,  a  boy  was  growing  up  in  the  Abbey  School  who  was 
destined  to  be  his  successor,  and  also  his  superior  in  the  art  of 
the  historiographer.  In  12 17  this  boy  became  a  novice  in  the 
monastery,  and  assisted  Roger  of  Wendover  in  some  of  the  less 
important  parts  of  his  work.  He  learnt  to  draw,  to  paint,  to 
illuminate,  and  to  work  in  metals  ;  he  studied  the  science  of 
heraldry  as  well  as  the  usual  subjects  of  the  mediaeval  student's 
course.  The  convent,  recognizing  his  abiUty,  sent  him  to  the 
University  of  Paris,  then  at  the  height  of  its  fame,  that  he  might 
continue  his  studies  there.  Whether  it  is  to  this  fact  that  he 
owes  his  surname  we  do  not  know,  but  in  all  the  records  in  which 
he  is  mentioned  his  name  is  given  as  Matthew  Paris.  In  1236 
Roger  of  Wendover  died,  and  Matthew  Paris  succeeded  him  as 
historiographer  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Albans.  He  soon  became 
a  man  of  considerable  consequence  in  England,  highly  esteemed 
as  a  scholar,  writer,  and  man  of  affairs.  He  Uved  for  long 
periods  at  the  Court,  on  terms  of  close  intimacy  with  the 
greatest  men  of  the  day.  He  was  high  in  the  favour  of 
Hemy  III,  and  it  is  said  that  a  large  part  of  the  material  for  his 
chronicle  was  gathered  in  conversation  with  the  king. 

But  Court  favour  did  not  make  Matthew  Paris  a  courtier,  in 
the  sense  of  a  sayer  of  smooth  and  flattering  things  to  please 

55 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

the  royal  ear.  His  chief  characteristic,  and  that  for  which 
his  countrymen  loved  him  during  his  lifetime,  and  revered  his 
memory  after  he  was  dead,  was  his  sturdy  patriotism,  which 
showed  itself  in  outspoken  opposition  to  any  attack  on  the 
liberty  or  well-being  of  England.  Foreign  interference  more 
especially  aroused  his  ire.  He  was  a  good  Catholic,  yet  he 
spoke  in  the  strongest  terms  of  the  Pope's  unlawful  exactions, 
and  opposed  with  all  his  might  the  emissaries  sent  from  Rome. 
Harpies  and  bloodsuckers  he  called  them,  plunderers  who  did 
not  merely  shear  but  skin  the  sheep.  He  did  not  hesitate  to 
reprove  the  king  for  not  offering  a  stronger  resistance  to  these 
ill-doers.  The  clergy  of  England,  he  said,  looked  to  the  king  for 
support,  but  they  found  him  "as  it  were  the  stalk  of  a  reed 
on  which  those  who  lean  in  confidence  are  wounded  by  the 
fragments." 

In  all  the  writings  of  Matthew  Paris  these  qualities  of 
patriotism  and  outspokenness  are  plainly  to  be  seen.  The 
alterations  and  additions  which  he  made  to  the  Chronicle  of 
Roger  of  Wendover  are  nearly  always  such  as  serve  to  bring 
out  these  traits.  For  example,  after  the  account  of  the  fall  of 
Hubert  de  Burgh  he  inserts  the  famous  refusal  of  the  smith  to 
put  irons  on  the  justiciar — "  Is  he  not  that  most  faithful  and 
noble  Hubert  who  so  often  saved  England  from  foreigners  ?  " 
Another  quality  which  made  his  writings  acceptable  to  the 
men  of  his  own  day  was  the  homely  pungency  of  their  language. 
We  are  reminded  as  we  read  some  of  his  exhortations,  of  the 
style  of  another  great  ecclesiastic  who  lived  three  hundred  years 
later — Hugh  I^atimer.  "  Did  not  we  find  the  bones  of  our 
brethren  there,  hard  by  the  High  Altar,"  wrote  Matthew  Paris, 
"  when  we  were  beautifying  the  same  ?  O  ye  degenerate  sons 
of  this  degenerate  age  !  Two  centuries  ago  and  our  monks 
were  men  of  faith  and  prayer.  In  the  year  of  grace  one 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty-one  we  found  more  than 
thirty  of  them  buried  together,  and  their  bones  were  lying 
there,  white  and  sweet,  redolent  with  the  odour  of  sanctity 
every  one  ;  each  man  had  been  buried  as  he  died,  in  his  monas- 
tic habit,  and  his  shoes  upon  his  feet  too.  Aye,  and  such  shoes 
S6 


IPI  CHRONICA    MAJORA 

— shoes  made  for  wear  and  not  for  wantonness.  The  soles  of 
the  shoes  were  sound  and  strong,  they  might  have  served  the 
purpose  for  poor  men's  naked  feet  even  now,  after  centuries  of 
lying  in  the  grave.  Blush  ye  !  ye  with  your  buckles,  and  your 
pointed  toes  and  your  fiddle  faddle.  These  shoes  upon  the 
holy  feet  that  we  dug  up  were  as  round  at  the  toe  as  at  the 
heel,  and  the  latchets  were  all  of  one  piece  with  the  uppers. 
No  rosettes  in  those  days,  if  you  please  !  They  fastened 
their  shoes  with  a  thong,  and  they  wound  that  thong  round 
their  blessed  ankles,  and  they  cared  not  in  those  holy  days 
whether  their  shoes  were  a  pair.  lycf t  foot  and  right  foot,  each 
was  as  the  other  ;  and  we,  when  we  gazed  at  the  holy  relics — 
we  bowed  our  heads  at  the  edifying  sight,  and  we  were  dumb- 
founded even  to  awe  as  we  swung  our  censers  over  the  sacred 
graves  of  the  ages  past." 

The  only  part  of  the  Chronica  Majora  which  is  entirely 
Matthew  Paris's  work  is  the  history  of  the  years  1235-1253. 
During  this  time  his  home  was  the  great  abbey  of  St.  Albans, 
although,  as  we  have  seen,  he  spent  long  periods  at  the  Court ; 
also  in  1248  he  was  sent  by  the  Pope  on  a  mission  to  the  monks 
of  Norway,  and  was  absent  about  a  year.  We  can  imagine  him 
returning  to  the  monastery  after  one  of  these  absences,  eager 
to  write  down  all  the  news  that  he  had  gathered,  and  to  receive 
the  report  of  the  monks  of  St.  Albans,  who  had  been  making 
their  daily  record  for  him  while  he  had  been  away.  No  sort  of 
news  came  amiss  to  him.  His  chronicle  contains  reports  of 
the  weather  and  of  the  harvest,  records  of  births,  marriages  and 
deaths,  quaint  anecdotes,  stories  of  trivial  offences  against 
monastic  rule,  and  of  crimes  committed  by  obscure  individuals, ; 
with  their  punishment — all  these  side  by  side  with  the  accounts 
of  great  national  events.  This  miscellaneous  budget  of  news 
he  transcribed  in  the  beautiful  hand  learnt  in  his  convent-bred 
youth.  Some  of  his  work  was  probably  done  in  the  small 
private  apartment  which  the  dignity  and  importance  of  his 
office  secured  for  his  special  use,  but  for  the  most  part,  he  sat, 
we  think,  in  the  scriptorium,  working  in  company  with  his 
convent  brethren. 

57 


\ 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE  \ 

The  scriptorium  was  a  special    apartment  for  the  use  of  ) 
copyists  and  other  workers  concerned  in  the  making  of  books.  \ 
It  was  to  be  found  in  those  monasteries  where  this  work  was  j 
carried  on  on  too  large  a  scale  for  the  accommodation  of  the  j 
cloister  to  suffice.     As  early  as  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century  \ 
a  scriptorium  had  been  established  at  St.  Albans,  by  Paul,  the 
fourteenth  abbot,  who  was  a  kinsman  of  I^anfranc.     I^anfranc  i 
himself  had  given   active  help   and  encouragement  in  the  \ 
work.     The  scriptorium  adjoined  the  cloister,  and  was  large  j 
enough  for  about  twenty  scribes  to  carry  on  their  work.     The  j 
writers  sat  at  tables  "  carefully  and  artificially  constructed."  ] 
Each  was  supplied  by  the  armarius — the  official  in  charge  of  the  ! 
scriptorium — with  the  implements  and  materials  for  his  work 
— quill  pens  and  ink  of  various  colours — gold,  silver,  black,  red,  i 
blue  and  yellow  ;   rulers,  penknives,  chalk,  pumice  stone  for 
erasing  errors,  weights  to  keep  down  the  parchment.     Round 
the  walls  of  the  scriptorium  hung  scrolls  bearing  rules  and 
admonitions.     The  chief  rule  was  that  absolute  silence  must 
be  maintained.      Even  if  a  writer  wanted  a  book  of  reference  ] 
he  must  not  ask  for  it  in  words,  but  by  means  of  a  code  of  ? 
signals.     An  extended  hand  drew  the  attention  of  the  armarius,  | 
who  waited  for  the  sign  to  follow.    If  a  missal  or  service  book  1 
was  wanted,  the  applicant  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  ;  for  a  I 
psalter  he  put  his  hands  on  his  head  in  the  form  of  a  crown,  :' 
signifying  King  David  ;    if  he  required  the  work  of  a  pagan  ': 
author  he  scratched  his  ear,  as  a  dog  might  do,  for  pagans  i 
were  esteemed  but  as  dogs.  j 

In  the  silent,  orderly,  busy  room,  work  of  various  kinds  went  i 
on.  The  boys  and  younger  monks  of  the  monastery  copied  i 
letters,  or  transcribed  service  books  for  the  use  of  the  house.  ! 
The  more  skilled  writers  made  copies  of  rare  manuscripts,  j 
Several  were  probably  employed  in  making  drafts  of  the  * 
material  required  by  the  historiographer  for  his  chronicle,  | 
writing  out  extracts  from  documents,  or  making  fair  copies  of  i 
each  section  as  it  was  finished.  Some  were  kept  busy  with  the  ^ 
legal  documents  which  the  business  of  the  establishment  \ 
necessitated  ;  for  monasteries  in  those  days  held  much  property 

58 


CHRONICA   MAJORA 

in  land,  derived  from  various  sources,  and  deeds  of  gift,  trans- 
ferences, leases,  and  agreements  were  constantly  wanted. 
There  were  besides  documents  connected  with  lawsuits,  of 
which  a  great  abbey  commonly  had  at  least  one  proceeding. 
Secular  scribes  employed  by  the  estabUshment,  worked  side 
by  side  with  the  regular  inmates.  These  did  a  great  part  of  the 
work  of  illuminating.  They  put  in  capital  letters,  rubrics, 
marginal  ornaments  and  illustrations.  Work  of  a  very  par- 
ticular nature  was  done  in  a  smaller  room  opening  out  of  the 
scriptorium. 

It  is  thought  that  the  illustrations  of  the  Chronica  Majora, 
as  well  as  the  actual  writing,  are  the  work  of  Matthew  Paris 
himself.  Some  of  these  are  very  curious.  There  is  a  picture  of 
a  Gothic  shrine,  carried  by  monks,  which  paralytics  attempt 
to  touch — the  figures  quaint  and  conventional  in  the  extreme  ; 
and  another  of  "  a  strange  animal  little  known  in  England  " — 
an  elephant,  "  drawn  from  nature,"  the  first,  says  Matthew 
Paris,  that  has  been  seen  in  the  country. 

The  work  of  writing  and  copying  was  highly  esteemed,  and 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  important  of  a  monastery's 
activities.  Benefactors  often  left  lands  to  be  devoted  to  the 
upkeep  of  the  scriptorium,  or  the  monastery  itself  set  aside  a 
special  fund  for  the  purpose.  No  difiiculty  was  found  in  dis- 
posing of  the  works  produced.  A  system  of  exchange  between 
the  various  monasteries  was  carried  on,  by  means  of  which  each 
was  able  to  acquire  a  varied  selection  of  books.  Rich  men 
were  beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  literature  and  learning 
and  were  willing  to  pay  high  prices  for  copies  of  rare  manu- 
scripts which  they  would  either  present  to  cathedral  or 
monastic  Hbraries,  or  keep  as  hoarded  treasures  in  their  own 
houses. 

In  this  way  the  mediaeval  Church  preserved  the  works  of  the 
fathers,  and  such  of  the  ancient  classics  as  were  within  its 
reach.  In  this  way,  too,  it  added  to  the  store  original  works, 
which,  although  not  of  supreme  literary  merit,  had  yet  their 
value  and  interest  to  their  own  age  and  to  the  ages  to  come. 
Of  these  Matthew  Paris's  Chronica  Majora  is  one  of  the  most 

59 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

important.  In  it  the  art  of  the  chroniclers  reached  its 
highest  point.  After  his  death  in  1259  came  a  decHne,  and 
no  other  historian  of  any  note  arose  in  England  until  the 
Renaissance  brought  a  revival  in  every  department  of 
literature. 


60 


CHAPTER  VII 

PEARL  :    SIR  GAWAYNE  AND  THE 
GREEN  KNIGHT 

We  lost  you,  for  how  long  a  time, — 
True  pearl  of  our  poetic  prime  ! 
We  found  you,  and  you  gleam  re-set 
In  Britain's  lyric  coronet. 

Tennyson 

»^  I  "^HE  '  pearl '  of  Lord  Tennyson's  verse  is  a  beautiful 
I  fourteenth-century  poem,  the  manuscript  of  which, 
X  having  lain  unnoticed  for  perhaps  three  or  four 
hundred  years,  was  brought  to  hght  in  the  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  is  a  wonderful  little  poem,  and  more 
wonderful  still  if  it  is  considered  in  connexion  with  the  age  in 
which  it  was  written.  The  tliirteenth  and  early  fourteenth 
centuries  were,  in  English  Hterature,  the  flourishing  period  of 
the  romance.  The  love  of  story-teUing,  which  we  have  seen, 
was  strong  among  the  people  when  the  minstrel  dehghted  his 
Saxon  audiences  with  Beowulf ^  had  never  died  out,  though, 
with  the  coming  of  the  Normans  the  nature  of  the  stories  that 
were  told  had  changed.  Minstrels  sang  of  gorgeous  banquets 
and  glittering  tournaments,  of  the  dazzhng  beauty  of  fair 
ladies  and  the  marvellous  deeds  that  knights  wrought  in  their 
service.  Among  all  this  mass  of  literature,  of  which  the  gold 
and  the  tinsel  aUke  shone  with  surpassing  splendour,  was  set 
the  pure  radiance  of  Pearl.  No  other  title  could  so  aptly 
describe  the  quiet  lovehness  of  the  story  told  by  an  unknown 
singer  of  the  fourteenth  century.  It  is  the  story  of  the  love  of 
a  father  for  his  httle  two-year-old  motherless  daughter,  his 
pearl  so  round  and  radiant,  who  in  his  eyes  was  always  beauti- 
ful.   But  the  baby  girl  died — "  I  lost  it — in  an  arbour — alas  ! 

6i 


\ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

it  passed  from  me  from  grass  to  earth/'    The  lonely  father  \ 

mourned  for  his  treasure,  mourned,  it  seems,  for  many  years.  ; 

Then  one  day  he  went  into  the  *  arbour  green,'  where   his  | 

pearl  had  passed  from  his  keeping.    It  was  August,  and  \ 

the  reapers  were  busy  among  the  corn  ;    the  landscape  was  \ 
bright  with  the  glory  of  summer  flowers.     The  father  sat 

by  his  child's  grave  and  mused,  and,  as  he  sat,  a  vision  came  I 

to  him.    He  dreamed  that  he  was  transported  to  a  wonder-  j 

ful  land,  such  as  no  man  had  ever  seen.     A  great  joy  possessed  ] 
him,  and  he  forgot  his  loss  and  his  loneliness.     He  wandered 

along  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  and  as  he  went,  his  gladness  ■; 

increased.    He  looked  across  the  stream,  to  where  on  the  \ 

other  side  shone  a  crystal  cliff.     At  its  foot  sat  a  girl.     The  j 

father  knew  his  child  again,  though  the  baby  had  grown  5 
into  a  gradous  maiden.     "  I  knew  her  well,"  he  said,  "  long 

ago  I  had  seen  her  face."     He  longed  to  speak  to  his  daughter,  ; 

but  a  fear,  born  of  the  strangeness  of  all  things  round  him,  \ 

kept  back  his  words.     Then  the  girl  lifted  her  lovely  face  and  | 

looked  at  her  father,  and  with  that  look  intense  longing  and  } 

fear  and  joy  thrilled  through  him,  so  that  he  knew  not  what  \ 
to  do.     The  girl  stood  up,  and  he  saw  more  plainly  the  beauty 
of  her  face  and  of  her  array.     Pure  white  pearls  decked  the 
crown  that  she  wore  upon  her  head,  and  the  shining  white  robe 
whose  burnished  folds  fell  around  her  ;   on  her  breast  shone 

a  pearl  of  marvellous  loveliness,  whose  worth  no  man  could  :' 

estimate.     The  father  tells  how  he  spoke  across  the  stream  to  ] 

his  daughter.     "  Art  thou  my  Pearl,"  he  asked,  "  the  baby  girl  j 

I  have  loved  and  mourned  ?     How  didst  thou  come  to  this  : 

glorious  home,  so  far  from  thy  father  who  has  been  joyless  since  \ 
he  lost  thee  ?  "     The  maiden  again  lifted  her  grey  eyes  to  his 

face.     "  Thy  Pearl  is  not  lost,"  she  said,  "  but  in  this  joyful  j 

garden,  free  from  sin  and  sorrow,  is  safely  treasured."     So  ] 

they  talked  together.     Pearl  told  of  her  wonderful  happiness,  ! 
and  lovingly  reproved  her  father  when  he  wished  to  cross  the 

stream  and  enter  the  heavenly  country.    He  had,  she  said,  ] 
quite  misunderstood  the  laws  of  that  country,  and  the  way  in 
which  men  might  come  to  it.    She  bade  him  have  patience 
62 


( 


Reproduced  from  the  Illumination  in  the  Cotton  MS. 

of  "  Pearl  "  62 

At  the  British  Museum 


PEARL 

until  he  was  called  ;  meanwhile,  if  he  would,  he  might  look 
upon  a  vision  of  the  New  Jerusalem  that  was  his  daughter's 
home.  The  vision  passed  before  him,  and  he  describes  the 
glories  of  the  city  in  words  inspired  by  the  Book  of  Revelation. 
As  he  looked  on  it,  the  streets  were  thronged  with  maidens 
radiantly  bedecked,  like  his  own  blest  one,  and  in  the  midst 
of  them  he  saw  her,  his  '  little  queen.'  Then  he  forgot  all  the 
splendours  before  him  in  joy  at  looking  on  the  face  which  was 
to  him  the  face  of  the  baby  girl  he  had  lost  so  long  before.  But 
suddenly  the  vision  faded,  and  he  awoke  to  find  himself  lying 
on  the  grass  alone. 

The  only  copy  of  Pearl  known  to  be  in  existence  is  to  be  found 
among  the  Cottonian  collection  of  manuscripts.  It  is  bound 
up  with  some  thirteenth-century  theological  treatises,  and  the 
unattractive  appearance  of  these  probably  discouraged  readers 
from  attempting  further  investigations.  But  early  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  Sir  Frederick  Madden,  Keeper  of  the 
Manuscripts  in  the  British  Museum,  made  a  thorough  examina- 
tion of  the  works  under  his  charge.  He  discovered  that  the 
volume  in  question  contained,  besides  the  theological  treatises, 
four  Middle  English  poems,  which  have  been  called  Pearl, 
Cleanness,  Patience,  and  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight. 
Professor  Gollancz  describes  the  handwriting  of  the  manu- 
script as  small,  sharp  and  irregular,  belonging  apparently  to 
the  end  of  the  fourteenth  or  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  There  are  neither  titles  nor  rubrics,  the  chief 
divisions  being  marked  by  large  initial  letters  of  blue  flourished 
with  red.  The  manuscript  contains  several  coarsely  executed 
illuminations,  each  occupying  a  full  page.  No  single  line  of  any 
of  the  four  poems  has  been  discovered  in  any  other  manuscript. 

Pearl  is  written  in  twelve-lined  stanzas,  the  alternate  lines 
rhyming.  Alliteration  is  freely  used,  but  not  according  to 
any  regular  plan  as  in  the  earlier  poems.  Various  editions 
and  translations  of  them  have  been  issued  and  have  been 
received  with  delight  by  all  lovers  of  poetry.  For  a  translation 
of  Pearl,  by  Mr.  Israel  Gollancz,  lyord  Tennyson  wrote  the 
quatrain  placed  at  the  head  of  this  chapter. 

63 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ^ 

i 

Of  the  four  poems  contained  in  the  manuscript,  Pearl  un- 1 
doubtedly  stands  highest.  Next  to  it  comes  Sir  Gawayne 
and  the  Green  Knight,  which  is  one  of  the  best  examples  we  j 
possess  of  the  Arthurian  romances  that  were  so  common  at : 
this  period.  It  was  probably  taken  from  some  French  original,  < 
for  the  author  states  that  it  was  long  "  locked  in  lettered  lore,"  ; 
before  he  gave  it  to  his  countrymen.  . 

Gawayne,  the  nephew  of  King  Arthur,  was  one  of  the' 
favourite  figures  of  mediaeval  romance.  He  was  distinguished 
above  all  the  other  knights  of  the  Round  Table  for  truth, ' 
courage  and  chastity,  as  well  as  for  his  great  personal  beauty  \ 
and  wonderful  strength.  No  one  could  match  this  "  falcon  of  \ 
the  month  of  May  "  who  was  so  gentle  and  courtly,  yet  so  ■ 
terrible  on  the  field  of  battle.  The  story  of  Sir  Gawayne  and . 
the  Green  Knight  tells  how  Arthur  and  his  Court  were  feasting  i 
at  Camelot  one  New  Year's  Day,  when  a  knight,  "  the  mightiest  \ 
that  might  mount  a  steed,"  entered  the  hall.  His  hair  and  hisi 
beard  were  "  thick  and  green  as  a  bush ;  "  his  rich  dress  wasj 
green  ;  he  rode  a  green  horse,  with  trappings  and  harness  all  of! 
green.  He  challenged  any  one  of  Arthur's  knights  to  "  strike 
him  one  stroke  for  another,"  promising  that  he  would  abide  | 
the  stroke  unarmed.  Gawayne  took  up  the  challenge  and^ 
smote  the  knight  "  so  that  his  fair  head  fell  to  the  earth,  the  ^ 
blood  spurted  forth,  and  glistened  on  the  green  raiment  but  ji 
the  knight  neither  faltered  nor  fell ;  he  started  forward  with  " 
outstretched  hand  and  caught  the  head,"  then  with  the  head  ] 
in  his  hand  addressed  Sir  Gawayne,  teUing  him  to  seek  him  at  ] 
the  Green  Chapel  on  the  next  New  Year's  Day,  and  there,  j 
according  to  the  covenant  made  between  them,  abide,  in  his  \ 
turn,  a  blow.  Then  he  rode  away,  and  "  whither  he  went  j 
none  knew."  \ 

Next  comes  a  beautiful  passage  in  which  the  poet  describes  \ 
how  the  year  passed  away,  season  succeeding  season,  until  the  \ 
appointed  time  came  round.  Sir  Gawayne  took  a  sorrowful  \ 
farewell  of  Arthur  and  his  knights,  then  set  out  on  his  quest.  , 
"  Many  a  cliff  did  he  chmb  in  that  unknown  land,  where  afar 
from  his  friends  he  rode  as  a  stranger.    Never  did  he  come  to  a, 

64 


SIR    GAWAYNE 

"tream  or  a  ford,  but  he  found  a  foe  before  him,  and  that  one 
so  marvellous,  so  foul  and  fell,  that  it  behoved  him  to  fight.  So 
many  wonders  did  he  behold  that  it  were  too  long  to  tell  a 
tenth  part  of  them."  Thus  in  peril  and  pain  and  many  a 
hardship  he  rode  alone  till  Christmas  Eve.  At  last  he  saw 
before  him  a  castle  standing  in  a  meadow  with  a  park  all 
about  it.  Gawayne  asked  for  admittance,  and  was  received 
with  much  courtesy.  When  his  name  was  made  known  to  the 
lords  and  ladies  assembled  they  rejoiced  greatly  to  learn  that 
the  far-famed  Sir  Gawayne  had  come  among  them.  So  he 
stayed  at  the  castle  three  days,  and  then,  mindful  of  his  quest, 
asked  his  host  if  he  could  help  him  to  find  the  Green  Chapel. 
The  host  promised  that  a  guide  should  take  him  thither  by  the 
shortest  way.  It  lay  so  near  the  castle  that  there  was  no  need 
to  start  until  the  dawn  of  the  appointed  day  itself.  "  Now  I 
thank  you  for  this  above  all  else,"  said  Gawayne,  "  now  my 
quest  is  achieved  I  will  dwell  here  at  your  will,  and  otherwise 
do  as  ye  shall  ask."  "  We  will  make  a  covenant,"  answered 
the  host,  "  you  shall  remain  at  home  and  I  will  go  out  to  hunt. 
Whatsoever  I  win  in  the  wood  shall  be  yours,  and  whatever 
may  fall  to  your  share,  that  shall  ye  exchange  for  it "  ;  and 
Gawayne  laughingly  agreed. 

The  next  morning  the  host  went  forth  to  hunt.  Gawayne 
remained  with  the  lady  of  the  castle,  who  made  great  show  of 
love  to  him  ;  but  he  resisted  all  her  advances,  keeping  true 
faith  with  his  host.  Only,  at  parting,  he  received  from  her  a 
kiss.  The  lord  returned,  with  many  deer  that  he  had  killed. 
These  he  gave  to  Gawayne,  and  received  in  return  the  kiss. 
The  next  day  passed  in  the  same  way  ;  at  evening  Gawayne 
had  two  kisses  to  render  in  return  for  a  mighty  boar.  Next 
day,  which  was  the  last  of  his  stay,  the  lady  gave  him  three 
kisses,  and  after  much  persuasion  prevailed  on  him  to  accept 
as  a  parting  gift  the  green  girdle  which  she  wore.  It  had 
magic  power,  she  said,  for  whatever  knight  was  girded  with  it 
"  no  man  over  heaven  can  overcome  him,  for  he  may  not  be 
slain  for  any  magic  on  earth."  For  this  reason,  and  not  as  a 
love  pledge,  Gawayne  took  the  girdle. 

E  6$ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Next  morning  he  set  forth  and  came  by  guidance  of  a 
servant,  to  a  wild  and  dreadful  place,  where  he  found  that  a 
grass-grown  mound  with  a  hole  at  either  end  was  the  Green 
Chapel  that  he  sought.  From  it  came  out  the  Green  Knight. 
Gawayne  bared  his  neck,  but  as  the  blow  was  about  to  descend 
he  shrank  ever  so  slightly.  The  knight  withheld  the  stroke 
and  taunted  Gawayne  with  his  fear.  "  At  King  Arthur's 
Court,"  said  the  Green  Knight,  "  I  stood  firm  to  abide  your 
blow.  Where  is  the  promise  that  you  made  that  you  in  turn 
would  abide  mine  ?  "  "I  shrank  once,"  answered  Sir 
Gawayne,  "  but  so  will  I  no  more."  Again  the  Knight  feigned 
to  strike,  and  Gawayne  did  not  flinch.  A  third  time,  and  the 
axe  touched  his  neck  lightly,  so  that  the  blood  flowed.  Then 
the  Green  Knight  revealed  himself  as  the  lord  of  the  castle, 
the  host  at  the  Christmas  revels.  Gawayne  had  been  tried,  he 
said,  in  courage  and  in  loyalty,  for  it  was  at  the  desire  of  her 
lord  that  the  lady  of  the  castle  had  tempted  him.  Had  he  not 
retained  the  girdle  he  would  have  passed  the  ordeal  unhurt ; 
the  sHght  wound  was  punishment  for  slight  disloyalty.  In 
everything  else  he  had  shown  himself  true  knight.  "  In  sooth," 
said  the  lord,  *'  I  think  thou  art  the  most  faultless  knight  that 
ever  trod  earth.  As  a  pearl  among  white  peas  is  of  more 
worth  than  they,  so  is  Gawayne,  i'  faith,  by  other  knights." 
Gawayne,  however,  could  not  overlook  his  one  act  of  un- 
faithfulness, and  bitterly  lamented  it.  He  would  not  return 
to  the  castle,  but  departed  sorrowfully  for  Arthur's  court. 

The  two  other  poems.  Cleanness  and  Patience,  are  of  slighter 
merit  and  are  for  our  purpose  sufiiciently  described  by  the  titles. 

We  have  no  record  of  the  writer  or  writers  of  these  poems, 
no  mention  in  any  contemporary  work,  no  inscription  on  the 
manuscript.  All  we  have  to  trust  to  is  the  internal  evidence 
derived  from  the  poems  themselves.  From  this  critics  have 
concluded  that  all  four  poems  are  by  the  same  hand,  and  have 
built  up  a  biography  of  the  supposed  author,  which  is  probably 
true  in  its  main  outlines,  if  not  in  all  its  details. 

The  poet  was  born  in  I^ancashire  or  the  neighbouring  district, 
about  1330.  His  father  was  himself  neither  wealthy  nor 
66 


Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight  66 

From  the  Cotton  MS.  in  the  British  Museum 


SIR    GAWAYNE 

well  born,  but  was  connected  as  steward  or  in  some  similar 
capacity  with  a  family  of  high  rank.  The  boy,  therefore,  had 
daily  opportunities  of  becoming  familiar  with  the  hfe  led  by 
men  of  great  birth  and  position.  He  heard  the  songs  sung  by 
the  minstrels  in  the  hall,  he  watched  the  hunting  parties  as 
they  started  gaily  on  a  winter's  morning,  and  as  he  grew  older 
he  accompanied  them  and  shared  in  the  sport.  He  saw  the 
rich  dresses  of  lords  and  ladies,  heard  their  soft  voices,  noted  the 
grace  and  courtesy  of  all  their  actions.  He  learnt  what  qualities 
distinguish  an  ideal  knight,  and  how  a  high  born  lady  should 
bear  herself  as  mistress  of  a  great  castle. 

The  boy  was  educated,  and  it  seems  probable  that  as  he  grew 
up  he  became  a  clerk,  that  is,  he  entered  one  of  the  minor 
orders  of  the  Church.  An  intensely  rehgious  feeling  is  shown 
in  all  his  work,  and  a  close  acquaintance  with  Church  practices. 
He  did  not  become  a  priest,  for  he  married,  and  one  child,  a 
Httle  girl,  was  bom  to  him.  There  is  no  mention  of  his  wife  in 
any  of  his  works  ;  perhaps  his  marriage  was  not  a  very  happy 
one ;  probably,  indeed,  almost  certainly,  his  wife  was  dead 
when  he  lost  his  little  daughter.  Only  two  years  his  baby 
girl  stayed  with  him,  but  that  was  long  enough  for  her  to  gain 
the  whole  love  of  his  heart.  When  she  died  he  was  left 
desolate.  Other  trials  came  upon  him — poverty,  distress,  and 
loss  of  friends — but  his  faith  never  failed  him,  and  the  great 
hope  of  his  life  was  always  that  he  might  see  his  child  again. 

Such  was  the  man,  we  must  needs  believe,  who,  out  of  the 
glad  memories  of  his  early  days,  wrote  Sir  Gawayne,  and  after 
he  had  been  laid  low  by  a  great  sorrow,  transcribed  his  beautiful 
vision  of  Pearl.  In  the  evening  of  his  days,  when  he  sat  alone, 
waiting  for  the  time  when  he  should  rejoin  his  **  spotless  one," 
he  moralized  on  '  Patience '  and  '  Cleanness.'  How  his  life 
ended — whether  he  entered  a  convent,  as  some  have  fancied, 
or  died  alone  in  poverty  and  wretchedness — we  do  not  know. 
But  his  work  has  brought  him  fame  which,  though  long-delayed, 
will  be  lasting,  and  will  grow  greater  as  the  gallant  Gawayne 
and  the  tender  lovely  Pearl  become  known  to  a  wider  circle  of 
readers. 

67 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    VISION   OF   PIERS   PLOWMAN^  . 

THIERS  PLOWMAN,  like  Pearl,  is  the  work  of  an  un- 
t-^  known  author.  In  this  case,  however,  tradition  and 
-X^  a  few  chance  references  in  the  hterature  of  the  time 
supplement  the  inferences  gathered  from  the  poem  itself. 
Moreover,  in  the  poem  the  writer  makes  several  distinct  allu- 
sions to  his  own  circumstances.  Carefully  putting  together  all 
this  evidence  we  can  make  our  story  of  the  book. 

The  name  of  the  poet  was  William  Langland.  His  parents 
were  of  lowly  birth  and  position — ^they  may  even  have  been 
serfs.  They  Hved  in  the  little  village  of  Cleobury  Mortimer 
amongst  the  Malvern  Hills,  probably  on  land  belonging  to 
Malvern  Priory,  which  stood  in  the  valley  under  the  Great 
Hill.    Will,  their  son,  born  about  1332,  was  a  clever  lad,  but 

*  The  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman  has,  up  to  quite  recent  times,  been  regarded 
as  the  work  of  a  single  author.  Skeat  and  Jusserand,  the  two  great  authorities 
on  the  poem,  arrived,  quite  independently,  at  conclusions  concerning  its 
authorship  which  are,  except  in  small  points  of  detail,  identical.  On  these 
conclusions  the  chapter  on  Piers  Plowman  contained  in  this  book  is  based. 
In  1908,  however.  Professor  Manly  pubUshed  in  the  second  volimie  of  the 
Cambridge  History  of  Literature  the  results  of  his  exhaustive  examination  of 
the  text  of  the  poem.  He  has  been  led  to  believe  that  Piers  Plowman  is  the 
work  not  of  one,  but  of  five  authors.  One,  who  may  be  identified  with 
William  Langland,  wrote  the  Prologue  and  Passus  I  to  VIII.  Passus  IX  to 
XII  were.  Professor  Manly  beUeves,  written  by  a  continuator  who  attempted, 
with  small  success,  to  imitate  the  style  of  the  earher  part ;  and  the  remaining 
lines  by  a  scribe  or  minstrel  named  John  But.  The  second  version  (or  B  text, 
as  it  is  called)  he  attributes  to  a  fourth  writer  who  was  probably  a  cleric ; 
the  third  version,  or  C  text,  to  "  a  man  of  much  learning,  of  true  piety,  and 
of  genuine  interest  in  the  welfure  of  the  nation,  but  tmimaginative,  cautious, 
and  a  very  pronoimced  pedant." 

Professor  Manly's  view  is  considered  by  the  best  authorities  on  Early 
EngUsh  literature  to  be  worthy  of  very  serious  consideration,  and  the 
investigation  opened  by  him  will  probably  be  carefully  followed  up  in  the  near 
future. 

68 


THE   VISION    OF   PIERS    PLOWMAN 

strange,  so  the  neighbours  thought.  He  was  shy  and  quiet 
and  dreamy  in  his  ways,  and  had  little  to  do  with  the  sports 
and  frolics  of  the  village  boys.  The  monks  at  the  Priory 
school  found  him  so  apt  a  pupil  that  they  talked  proudly  of  his 
attainments  to  visitors  who  came  to  the  convent ;  and  so  there 
were  friends  ready  to  help  the  clever  boy  and  lift  him  from  the 
lowly  place  his  birth  had  given  him.  But  Will  was  preparing 
himself  for  a  future  which  held  little  chance  of  worldly  pros- 
perity. He  was  by  nature  a  dreamer,  and  even  in  those  early 
years,  when  he  wandered  over  the  fair  hillsides  of  Malvern,  his 
brain  was  haunted  with  visions  and  perplexed  with  doubts. 
Real  life  as  he  knew  it  among  the  "  poor  folk  in  cots  "  with 
whom  he  lived  day  by  day  was  hard  and  cruel  enough,  and  the 
lad  was  vaguely  puzzled  to  know  why  this  should  be  so. 

Burdened  with  children  and  chief  lords'  rent, 

What  they  spare  from  their  spinning  they  spend  it  in  house  hire  ; 

Both  in  milk  and  in  meal  to  make  a  mess  o'  porridge. 

To  satisfy  therewith  the  children  that  cry  out  for  food. 

Also  themselves  suffer  much  hunger 

And  woe  in  winter  time  with  waking  of  nights 

To  rise  'twixt  the  bed  and  the  wall  and  rock  the  cradle  ; 

Both  to  card  and  to  comb,  to  patch  and  to  wash, 

To  tub  and  to  reel,  rushes  to  peel ; 

That  pity  'tis  to  read  or  to  show  in  rhyme 

The  woe  of  these  women  that  dwell  in  cots. 

There  were  lords  and  ladies,  he  knew,  whose  lives  were  far 
different ;  they  had  ease  and  luxury,  and  good  things.  Why 
should  the  poor  man  "  swynke  and  sweat  and  sow  for  both  ?  " 
Somewhere  truth  and  righteousness  must  exist,  he  knew  it  by 
the  vague  though  glowing  visions  which  flashed  across  his 
brain.  But  where  could  a  man  find  them  ?  How  could  he. 
Will  lyangland,  search  them  out  ? 

So,  while  he  was  yet  a  lad  he  brooded  on  the  inequalities  of 
life,  and  his  sympathy  with  the  poor  folk  of  the  land  was 
kindled.  When  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Great  Hill,  and 
looked  down  on  the  grassy  plain  beneath  him,  where  the 
shining  Severn  ran,  and  the  bordering  hills,  covered  with 
gorse  and  heather  and  fern,  stretched  away  until  they  were  lost 
in  a  blue  haze,  it  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  scene  that  filled  his 

69 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

mind.     For  him  that  "  faire  felde  "  was  an  image  of  the  world. 
It  was  "  ful  of  folke." 

Of  all  manner  of  men,  the  mean  and  the  rich. 

Working  and  wandering  as  the  world  asketh. 

Some  put  them  to  the  plough,  full  seldom  they  play, 

In  setting  and  in  sowing  labour  too  hard 

And  win  that  which  wasters  with  gluttony  destroy. 

As  he  brooded,  bit  by  bit,  the  vision  extended  itself,  until  it 
grew  into  a  kind  of  symbolic  picture  of  the  life  of  the  time. 
Again  and  again  he  came  back  to  it,  and  each  time  his  imagi- 
nation added  further  details.  vSoon  he  began  to  shape  his 
thoughts  into  a  regular  poem,  and  to  write  down  the  verses  as 
he  made  them.  All  his  experiences  were  put  into  it.  He  told 
how  the  poor  folk  lived,  and  what  they  ate,  how  they  talked 
to  each  other,  and  how  bravely  they  bore  the  hardships  of  their 
lot.  He  told  also  how  the  spirit  of  discontent  was  growing 
among  them,  how  they  were  beginning  to  realize  the  oppression 
from  which  they  suffered,  and  the  corruption  of  the  rulers  they 
were  bound  to  obey.  All  the  vague  political  talk  which  was 
going  about  from  one  poor  cot  to  another,  and  which,  thirty 
years  later,  was  to  bring  the  great  rising  of  the  peasants,  he 
faithfully  reported.  He  had  many  a  time  heard  hard-handed 
labouring  men  talk  of  the  king  and  nobles,  and  of  what  might 
be  expected  from  them  ;  of  the  Church  and  how  it  had  fallen 
away  from  Truth  ;  and  ever  more  and  more  clearly  he  saw 
that  if  the  lot  of  the  poor  man  was  to  be  improved  it  was 
from  himself  and  his  own  efforts  that  the  improvement  must 
come.  The  man  who  worked  was  the  true  hero,  for  he  lived 
according  to  truth  and  righteousness ;  therefore  I^angland 
made  a  poor  ploughman  the  hero  of  his  tale. 

So  the  vision  shaped  itself  in  the  mind  of  the  dreaming  boy. 
He  saw  Flattery,  Falsehood,  and  Guile,  in  the  guise  of  the 
rich  and  noble,  mingling  with  the  crowd  ;  and,  worst  of  all,  he 
saw  Ivady  Meed,   drawing  to  herself  a  large  company  of 
followers : 


A  wommen  wortheli  yclothed. 

Hire  arraye  me  ravished,  such  richness  saw  I  never. 


70 


THE    VISION    OF    PIERS    PLOWMAN 

These  ruled  the  world,  though  Conscience  did  her  best  to 
bring  their  evil  plans  to  naught.  Then  Reason  preached  to 
the  people,  bidding  them  forsake  their  sins,  and  turn  and  ask 
God's  mercy.  Truth  should  deliver  them.  All  were  willing  to 
seek  for  Truth,  but  where  was  he  to  be  found  ?  In  that  great 
company  there  seemed  to  be  none  who  knew  him.  Many 
saints  they  knew,  to  whose  shrines  they  had  made  pilgrimages, 
but  none  of  these  was  named  Truth.  Then  a  ploughman,  who 
was  called  Piers,  stepped  forward.  He  could  guide  them,  he 
said,  to  Truth. 

I  knowe  him  as  kindly  as  clerk  doth  his  books  : 
I  have  been  his  follower  for  these  fifty  winters. 

He  promised  to  take  them  on  their  way  when  he  had  finished 
ploughing  his  half-acre  ;  for  work  must  not  be  neglected,  all 
must  work  if  they  would  find  Truth  and  escape  from  Hunger. 
By  this  time  Truth  (who  is  God  the  Father)  had  heard  of 
those  who  were  searching  for  him,  and  sent  them  a  message  of 
pardon  for  their  sins.  But  a  priest,  jealous  of  the  priestly 
privilege  of  bestowing  pardon,  declared  the  message  to  be  false, 
and  in  the  strife  which  arose  concerning  it,  the  dreamer  awoke. 

This,  very  briefly,  is  the  outline  of  the  story.  It  is  full  of 
teaching  concerning  the  duties  of  the  king,  the  nobles,  and  the 
commons,  the  loveliness  of  Truth,  and  the  obhgation  which 
lies  upon  all  Christians  to  love  one  another.  There  was,  it 
is  evident,  in  the  mind  of  the  young  poet,  a  high  and  beautiful 
ideal  of  what  hfe,  worthily  lived,  should  be  ;  and  his  anger  and 
contempt  for  those  who  live  unworthily  proceeded  from  his 
intense  longing  that  men  should  rise  to  the  heights  of  which, 
he  felt,  they  were  capable. 

Time  went  on,  and  Will  grew  to  be  a  man.  The  friends  who 
had  interested  themselves  in  his  education  were  still  disposed 
to  help  him.  In  those  days  the  best  way  to  advancement  for 
a  poor  and  penniless  youth  was  through  the  Church.  Will 
must  take  orders,  and  his  friends  would  perhaps  be  able  to 
find  for  him  some  preferment.  So  he  became  a  clerk.  But 
he  felt  very  strongly  within  himself  that  life  in  the  quiet 
Shropshire  village  could  not  long  content  him.     He  was  moody 

71 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  restless.  He  wanted  juany  things  which  he  had  not  the 
energy  to  strive  for.  "  All  the  sciences  under  sun  and  all  the 
subtil  crafts,  I  would  I  knew  and  understood  well  in  my  heart." 
But  as  he  goes  on  to  tell  us,  he  was  "  eager  to  learn  but  loth 
for  to  study.  He  was  too  ready  to  follow  '  Ymaginatif '  to 
give  his  mind  earnestly  to  any  practical  work. 

Exactly  when  he  left  his  country  home  we  do  not  know. 
He  probably  spent  some  time  wandering  about  the  country, 
then  came  to  I^ondon.  He  married,  and  so  cut  himself  off 
from  all  hope  of  advancement  in  the  Church,  for  though 
those  who  had  entered  the  minor  orders  only  were  not  for- 
bidden to  take  wives,  there  could  be  no  married  priests.  We 
know  nothing  about  I^angland's  wife,  except  that  her  name 
was  Katherine,  or  Kit,  as  he  calls  her.  A  daughter  was  born 
to  him,  whom  he  named  Nicolette  or  Calote,  but  of  her,  too, 
we  know  nothing.  The  three  lived  together  in  a  little  house  in 
Cornhill,  near  St.  Paul's.  They  were  poor — so  poor  that  they 
sometimes  were  in  want  of  bread.  I^angland's  poem,  The 
Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,  had  been  finished  by  this  time,  and 
was  widely  known  all  over  the  country,  so  that  many  of  the 
poor  folk  had  learnt  it  by  heart,  and  passed  it  on  from  one  to 
another  by  word  of  mouth.  But  it  brought  in  little  money,  and 
I^angland's  earnings  in  other  ways  were  small.  He  acted  as  a 
chantry  priest,  that  is,  he  sang  masses  for  the  repose  of  the 
souls  of  the  dead,  he  copied  manuscripts  and  wrote  out  legal 
documents.     Of  his  life  at  this  time  he  tells  us  : 

And  I  live  in  I^ndon,  and  on  lyondon  both. 

The  lomes  [utensils]  that  I  labour  with  and  livelihood  deserve 

Is  Paternoster  and  my  primer,  placebo  and  dirige. 

And  my  psalter  sometimes  and  my  seven  psalms  ; 

Thus  I  sing  for  the  souls  of  such  as  me  helpen. 

And  those  that  find  me  my  food. 

"  It  requires  no  great  stretch  of  imagination,"  says  Professor 
Skeat,  "  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  tall,  gaunt  figure  of  lyong 
Will  in  his  long  robes  and  with  his  shaven  head  striding  along 
Cornhill,  saluting  no  man  by  the  way,  minutely  observant  of 
the  gay  dresses  to  which  he  paid  no  outward  reverence."  He 
tells  us  that  "  he  was  loath  to  reverence  lords  or  ladies,  or 
72 


#rtml  tKiictc  tto  cnriic  bttsiui  •bi  tm  coiioul  be  i  ^'itc^ 
Au  mvpc  i>f  bvtttf  wlifn^v*^  fUflJJiti'e  ittc  uciir) v* 
ant?  yMUJ  tjrt-cujhnirtJ  mo  am'i*bi  l:iioU;c  !im  iic  IbolFe 
;nrtc  Oj  Iff*?  rtiii)  (XiK  Mon^  tint?  fu  uj  yt*  Z)C(H' 
ill  i)ut'ameith'cl>o««vrtt-n!.iji{Mncii  ri»ri|KT*'^»» ♦<♦**»*  »^«^  ^ 
.    iTf^t  wAin  umics  nwh-»  Wm  tui*i$  Ujol^ni  ^iffjruc 
Ane  ?c  ^oijftv  of  jtmjnco*of  frc^tc  iiuni  a  Ujahc 
|U*  l\JCK  )*«f  ott-  i>f  yc  tuutminP  \ouiS^  bm:in»"tulbrt  j^ 

ibUrtrytrf  mcnrls  be  inciu't^S''  nwti  yAtbcu  um^ijc 

^piu'  ;jrr  i  liiott  iiwnwf  "»«w  tint»  uf  >  idic 
4^f  brtwnw  i>f  bity\5vi^*i?»  Anfi  bim^c  mcti  uf  yyi^tir 

Tbtfbb<f(h.ico  rttiP  Ujdlbi>'u»rtli£>  tbtnncKo  Ibty*  liouP<5- 

.Vit^  t^vtiuni  f\»i)«  y»clonjjv  t^m^Ujif  Ami  frtue  t^mmt^mme***"^** — 
^-^  (JIFoUtftf  mii»  be»>i  UiiancjJ*  cyuHi  bircv  i)iiir  bow 

■^      U<ttii  Ibm  of  oiVmc*  fix\S  k^'tc  if  ^*beiDC 
^f  vc  volkk  rtntT  v^dwUyc  yoft-  to  t'lf  i;c 

pttr  )•«:  ttiJirtvnnc  be  nu*uc)*«rtn^  yc '»tic>Uc  :9rilc 


J^t^aue  >•<  felt)  fill  i>f  tvloi  )cinU;pUj  |^K  fclicltc 
^  j-JjlJotu'U  I'.uH  of  lcvc«in  litiihritc  t  di>;vf' 

^     ^  ~  i Ant'  |Vit»c  Ujillc  I'dcvctt  yolU  fccjt  )'oft  yu?  ^jcyic 
h     ^     Iboll^  bifi  r***"  )*^i bcii*il  rt  bojifte  yo  ithi^'c* • » i» « i « ^  i  v  1 1 1  ^  < 
*       /n^v  u:o|t«  4Jt>>ti,*co|i  f  l^4>9J^c•|^•»^4)rt^Ycy'  cups  C>]»c 
•  H« Mi'^cu  )'0  lboi|d»t»c  Ml  )'u?  Q^>il^}•  )h:i  lbititi7>  tiubca>4: 

''I  r  -^  otv>  bciicjjf  t«rwiV.cK»l'^l^'»  V^^  norrt!c-»v*.i^ v». lev V  c. 
-- CTtotl^  H ^^ of  1> ji)c  ftifc «  >*4Ui  Iff !i-  frtu  lfevjw'» 

jyt"  |Vi^'  nitf>a  tnd£>inK' ♦jTbi  inrtjijc  lone  of  litfiiWiO**.. » * »  ^ 
^]jiv  tDUK  oil  yc  ti)ft»U»bttqtiitU  brt-  bi  lUinc 


B-. 


Page  of  the  MS.  of  "  Piers  Plowman  "  showing  the  end  of 
the  First  Canto  and  the  beginning  of  the  Second  72 

From  the  Cotton  MS.  in  the  British  Museum 


THE   VISION    OF   PIERS    PLOWMAN 

persons  dressed  in  fur  or  wearing  silver  ornaments  ;  he  never 
would  say  *  God  save  you  '  to  Serjeants  whom  he  met,  for  all 
of  which  proud  behaviour,  then  very  uncommon,  people  looked 
upon  him  as  a  fool." 

Somewhere  about  1377  it  is  probable  that  I^angland  began 
a  new  version  of  his  poem.  The  nation  was  at  this  time  in  a 
dissatisfied  and  uneasy  state.  The  Black  Prince  was  dead. 
Edward  III  was  entirely  under  the  influence  of  evil  advisers, 
the  heir  to  the  throne  was  a  child  of  twelve.  Langland  roused 
himself  to  a  fresh  effort.  He  knew  now  something  of  the 
sorrows  of  the  poor  of  London,  as  well  as  of  those  who  Hved 
among  the  Malvern  Hills.  He  added  to  his  poem  until  it 
was  three  times  the  length  it  had  been  at  first.  Almost  all  the 
additions  that  he  made  increased  the  value  of  the  work.  His 
version  of  the  well-known  fable  of  the  rats  who  wanted  to  bell 
the  cat,  now  appeared  in  the  poem  for  the  first  time. 

In  this  second  version  of  his  poem  Langland  made  a  great 
change  in  the  character  of  his  ploughman  hero.  At  first  he  had 
been  simply  an  honest.  God-fearing  peasant,  whose  singleness 
of  purpose  stood  out  in  strong  contrast  to  the  falsehood  and 
self-seeking  of  those  around  him.  But  now  he  became  a  type  of 
perfected  human  nature,  until  at  last  he  came  to  stand  for  the 
God-Man,  Jesus  Christ.  He  had  been  a  seeker  after  Truth, 
he  was  now  Truth  itself. 

The  poem  in  its  new  form  became  almost  a  gospel  to  the 
discontented  peasantry,  who  were  in  the  dangerous  restless 
state  which  comes  before  open  rebellion.  Piers  Plowman 
they  made  their  hero,  the  typical  working  man,  who  stood  for 
all  that  was  best  in  their  own  order.  In  138 1  came  the  great 
Peasant  Revolt  under  Wat  Tyler,  gangland  himself  had 
nothing  to  do  with  this,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his  poem  which 
can  be  said  to  have  encouraged  it.  He  taught  that  strife 
should  end  and  love  should  reign  between  different  classes  of 
men,  that  the  king  should  care  for  his  people  and  the  people 
should  trust  their  king.  But  because  he  exalted  a  ploughman 
above  rulers  and  nobles,  the  popular  voice  acclaimed  him  as 
a  teacher  of  rebellion. 

73 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

The  rising  of  the  peasants  failed,  and  we  can  imagine  how 
I/angland,  grieved  over  the  fate  of  those  his  poor  brothers,  on 
whom  punishment  had  fallen.  The  case  of  the  peasant  seemed 
more  hopeless  than  ever.  Fresh  burdens  were  put  upon  him, 
a  harder,  sterner  hand  held  him  down.  The  misery  of  it  all 
must  have  overwhelmed  the  poet  who,  from  his  boyhood,  had 
suffered  in  the  sufferings  of  his  brethren  and  who  had  longed 
so  earnestly  for  better  things.  In  his  poor  I^ondon  home, 
almost  within  sight  of  the  destruction  which  the  disastrous 
rising  had  caused,  he  grew  ever  sadder  and  more  hopeless. 
His  only  consolation  was  the  poem  which  had  been  the  work 
of  his  youth  and  which  now,  in  his  old  age,  he  set  himself  to 
rewrite  once  more.  This  third  version  was  probably  begun 
about  1390.  Ivangland  looked  back  over  his  past  life,  recalling 
as  those  who  are  growing  old  love  to  do,  the  scenes  of  his 
earlier  days.  These  he  described  in  his  poem,  with  power  still, 
but  power  weakened  by  garrulousness  and  occasional  irrele- 
vance. Before  the  work  was  finished  he  seems  to  have  left 
lyondon.  Where  the  rest  of  his  life  was  spent,  and  whether 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  or  quite  alone,  we  have  no  means  of 
knowing.  In  a  contemporary  poem,  Richard  the  Redeles,  that 
has  been  thought  to  be  by  I^angland,  the  author  says  that  in 
1399  he  was  at  the  City  of  Bristol.  This  is  the  last  trace  that 
can  be  found,  though  a  vague  tradition  which  we  should  like 
to  believe,  says  that  he  came  back  to  the  old  Priory  among  the 
Malvern  Hills  to  die. 


74 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   CANTERBURY   TALES 

WE  have  seen  how  Piers  Plowman  represents  the  work 
of  its  author's  whole  hfe,  how  he  put  into  it  all  that 
he  had  seen  and  heard  and  thought  and  felt  from 
boyhood  to  age.  Quite  as  truly,  the  Canterbury  Tales  may  be 
said  to  constitute  the  life-work  of  Chaucer.  He  did  not,  it  is 
true,  work  at  the  poem  through  long  years,  altering,  adding,  and 
retouching.  It  is  probable  that  no  word  of  the  work  was 
written  until  Chaucer  was  nearing  fifty,  and  that  it  was  finished 
in  at  most  four  or  five  years.  But  his  whole  life  had  been  a 
preparation  for  it.  Through  all  his  crowded  busy  years  he 
had  been  storing  up  the  impressions  that  his  quick  brain  had 
registered  :  he  had  been  learning  to  know  the  men  and  women 
of  the  world  around  him,  and  to  know  them  so  well  that  he 
could  re-create  them  in  the  manner  as  they  lived,  and  set  their 
living,  breathing  semblances  before  his  readers.  ^  He  had  been 
learning,  too,  the  wide  charity,  which  could  teach  his  keen, 
observant  eye  and  mirthful  spirit  to  look  upon  the  weaknesses 
and  foibles  of  men  with  kindly  indulgence  and  to  laugh  at  them 
without  bitterness.  The  technique  of  his  art  he  had  learnt  by 
the  best  of  all  methods — practice.  He  had  read,  translated, 
and  imitated  works  of  classic  fame  and  works  of  his  own  day. 
We  need  only  read  the  first  few  hues  of  the  Prologue  to  realize 
the  difference  between  his  verse  and  that  of  I^angland  and 
the  author  of  Pearl.  Freedom  and  ease  have  come  with  the 
final  casting  off  of  the  bonds  which  the  rigid  scheme  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  verse  had  bequeathed  to  Chaucer's  Middle  English 
predecessors.     The   influence   of    French    models   has   given 

75 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

lightness  and  grace,  the  poet's  own  genius  has  given  the  verse 
harmonies  which  sound  all  through  his  work. 

The  story  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  therefore,  must  include 
some  account  of  the  life  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer.  We  must 
watch  the  artist  gathering  his  materials  and  find  out,  as  far 
as  this  is  possible,  how  the  skill  with  which  they  are  used  was 
gained. 

Our  story  begins  in  lyondon  about  the  year  1340.  Geoffrey 
Chaucer,  we  beUeve,  was  born  in  Thames  Street,  in  a  house 
that  stood  beside  the  little  stream  of  Walbrook,  which  at  that 
time  flowed  down  from  Finsbury  Moor  to  the  Thames.  His 
father  was  John  Chaucer,  vintner,  a  citizen  of  wealth  and 
standing  who  had,  at  the  time  of  his  son's  birth,  but  lately 
returned  from  Flanders,  where  he  had  gone  in  attendance  on 
Edward  III  and  Queen  Philippa.  By  the  side  of  I^ondon's 
great  river,  then  a  busy  highway  of  trade,  the  poet  grew  up. 
While  Will  I/angland,  a  moody,  restless  youth,  was  wandering 
solitary  over  the  Malvern  Hills,  the  little  lad,  Geoffrey  Chaucer, 
was  taking  his  childish  part  in  the  busy  life  of  a  great  city. 
I^ingering  in  his  father's  shop,  he  saw  the  citizens  of  various 
qualities  coming  in  for  their  draught  of  wine,  and  heard  their 
solemn  talk  over  civic  affairs,  and  the  state  of  trade.  He  saw 
strange  ships  coming  up  the  Thames,  bringing  goods  from  other 
lands,  and  men  who  looked  and  spoke  in  a  way  that  seemed 
to  him  curious  and  uncouth ;  like  the  shipman  "  woning 
(dwelling)  far  by  weste  "  of  whom  he  gives  a  portrait  in  the 
famous  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  who  "  knew  wel  alle 
the  havens,  as  thei  were,  From  Scotland  to  the  cape  of  Fynestere, 
And  every  creek  in  Bretayne  and  in  Spain."  Sometimes,  per- 
haps, the  boy  went  with  his  father  to  the  Hall  of  the  Hanse 
Merchants,  where  sober  men  with  "  forked  herds  "  wearing 
"  Flaundrish  bever  hats  spak  full  solempnely  "  concerning 
the  **  encrease  of  their  wynnyngs  "  or  denounced  the  pirates 
who  infested  the  seas  between  England  and  the  Continent.  No 
part  of  this  experience  was  lost  on  him,  though  he  probably 
gave  little  sign  of  the  keen  interest  he  felt  in  all  he  saw  and 
heard.    His  father's  friends  very  likely  regarded  him  as  a  quiet, 

76 


1 


I^^The  canterbury  tales 

harmless  boy  who  gave  little  trouble,  and  *  sat  still  *  longer 
than  boys  are  wont  to  do.  They  were  not  warned  by  the 
humorous  twinkle  in  the  quiet  boy's  eye,  and  did  not  know  that 
they  were  sitting  for  their  portraits  for  all  posterity. 

Time  went  on,  and  young  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  sent  to 
school,  probably  to  the  cathedral  school  of  St.  Paul's.  He 
was,  we  expect,  a  good  scholar,  and  a  source  of  pride  to  his 
master,  though  he  may  have  been  too  shy  to  take  part  in  the 
proceedings  when  "  upon  festival  days  the  masters  made 
solemn  meetings  in  the  churches,  where  their  scholars  dis- 
puted logically  and  demonstratively  ;  .  .  .  the  boys  of  diverse 
schools  did  cap  or  pot  verses,  and  contended  of  the  principles 
of  grammar  ;  there  were  some  which  on  the  other  side  with 
epigrams  and  rymes,  nipping  and  quipping  their  fellows  and  the 
faults  of  others,  though  suppressing  their  names,  moved  thereby 
much  laughter  among  their  auditors. ' '  Out  of  school  there  were 
many  sports  in  which  he  might  join  with  his  schoolfellows — ball 
and  baton,  or  running  at  the  quintain  set  up  in  Comhill ;  or 
in  winter,  "  when  the  great  fen  or  moor  which  watereth  the 
walls  of  the  city  on  the  north  side;"  was  frozen,  taking  part  in 
the  play  going  on  there, — '*  some,  striding  as  wide  as  they 
may,  do  slide  swiftly  ;  others  make  themselves  seats  of  ice,  as 
great  as  millstones,  one  sits  down,  many  hand  in  hand  to  draw 
him,  and  one  slipping  on  a  sudden,  all  fall  together  ;  some  tie 
bones  to  their  feet  and  under  their  heels,  and  shoving  them- 
selves by  a  little  picked  staff,  do  sHde  as  swiftly  as  a  bird  flieth 
in  the  air,  or  an  arrow  out  of  a  cross-bow."  Perhaps  Geoffrey 
Chaucer  liked,  almost  better  than  anything  else,  to  sit  out- 
side his  father's  shop  in  the  summer  twilight,  particularly 
on  festival  days  like  the  Eve  of  St.  John,  and  watch  how  the 
flames  of  the  bonfires  that  had  been  kindled  at  intervals 
down  the  street,  lit  up  the  faces  of  the  citizens  as  they  stopped 
to  taste  the  "  sweet  bread  and  good  drink"  which  John  Chaucer, 
like  others  of  the  '  wealthier  sort '  had  set  out  on  a  table 
before  his  door,  "  whereunto  they  would  invite  their  neighbours 
and  passengers  also  to  sit  and  be  merry  with  them  in  great 
familiarity,  praising  God  for  his  benefits  bestowed  on  them." 

n 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Then  there  were  the  May-day  sports,  the  Midsummer  Watch, 
the  Christmas  mummings,  the  pageants,  processions  and  miracle- 
plays.  The  life  led  by  the  lyondoners  of  the  Middle  Ages  was, 
at  least  on  one  of  its  sides,  a  merry  one,  full  of  colour  and  hfe. 
Their  homes  were  comfortless,  and  a  long  spell  of  bad  weather 
— such  as  that  which  came  when  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was 
about  nine  years  old,  when  it  rained  from  Midsummer  to 
Christmas — must  have  reduced  them  to  despair.  But  such 
discomforts  only  made  them  the  more  eager  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  they  could  from  the  outdoor  life,  when  this  was 
possible. 

To  the  son  of  the  rich  vintner  lyondon  life  showed  itself  under 
its  most  pleasant  aspect.  He  Hved,  naturally,  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  busy  prosperity.  His  father's  friends  were  mostly 
sober  folk,  but  they  had  sons  and  daughters,  and  there  was 
probably  a  good  deal  of  laughter  and  blithe  merrymaking  among 
the  youths  and  maidens.  The  comedy  of  life  was  spread  out 
before  Chaucer,  with  its  ordinary  people,  its  everyday  humours, 
its  unheroic  incidents.  It  is  thus  that  he  best  loved  to  regard 
it,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  could  rise  to  heroic  heights 
when  the  *'  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life  "  came  to  him.  Nor 
did  tragedy  lie  outside  his  keen  human  sympathy,  and  in 
the  lyondon  streets,  then  as  now,  there  were  tragedies  to  be 
seen  by  those  whose  eyes  were  open  to  note  them.  It  was  per- 
haps in  his  boyhood,  perhaps  in  later  life,  that  Chaucer  saw 
some  poor,  pale,  trembling  wretch,  followed  by  a  savage, 
yelling  crowd,  dragged  to  meet  the  summary  justice  of  those 
rough  days  ;  and  the  glimpse  that  he  had  of  the  doomed 
man's  face  so  impressed  itself  on  his  mind  that  years  after- 
ward he  could  convey  something  of  its  terror  to  his  readers  : 

Have  ye  not  seen  some  time  a  pale  face, 
Among  a  press  of  him  that  hath  been  led 
Toward  his  death,  where  as  him  gat  no  grace. 
And  such  a  colour  in  his  face  hath  had, 
Men  mighte  know  his  face  that  was  bestead 
Amonges  all  the  faces  in  that  rout. 

At  what  time  Chaucer's  school  life  ended  we  do  not  know. 
Some  of  his  biographers  think  that  he  went  to  one  of  the 

78 


1 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 

Universities,  pointing  to  the  knowledge  that  he  had  of 
University  customs,  and  to  his  portrait  of  the  '  clerk  of  Oxen- 
ford  '  who  **  had  but  a  litel  gold  in  cofre  :  But  al  that  he 
might  of  his  frendes  hente.  On  bookes  and  his  lernyng  he 
it  spent,'*  in  support  of  their  conjecture.  If  he  did  he  must 
have  ended  his  stay  there  at  an  age  which  was  young  even  for 
the  Middle  Ages,  when  students  of  thirteen  and  fourteen  were 
common  at  the  Universities  ;  for  in  the  early  part  of  the  year 
1357,  and  probably  for  some  time  previously,  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  household  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence.  His  father 
had,  we  suppose,  enough  influence  at  Court  to  procure  for 
his  son  the  advantage  of  a  training  in  a  great  household — 
an  advantage  very  highly  esteemed  in  those  days.  For  the 
vintner's  house  and  the  London  streets  were  now  substituted 
the  crowded  palace,  and  a  succession  of  brilliant  scenes  of  Court 
life  as  the  Duchess  and  her  train  moved  in  semi-royal  progresses 
through  the  country. 

Chaucer  probably  held  the  position  of  page,  whose  duty  was 
to  give  personal  attendance  to  his  lady  both  indoors  and  out. 
In  the  long  winter  evenings  the  pages  often  read  aloud  to  the 
assembled  household,  usually  from  some  rehgious  work,  or 
from  the  romances  which  were  so  immensely  popular  at  the 
period.  We  can  imagine  how  Chaucer  must  have  delighted 
in  this  duty  when  a  happy  chance  gave  him  such  a  romance 
as  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight,  or  A  ucassin  and  Nicolette 
to  read,  and  we  can  see  how  the  memory  of  such  romances 
influenced  his  work  in  several  of  his  Canterbury  Tales.  But  at 
this  time  the  romance  literature  had  reached  its  highest  point, 
and  was  rapidly  declining.  The  favourite  romances  of  the  late 
fourteenth  century  were  long,  stilted,  tedious  effusions,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  anyone  could  have  taken  much  interest  in 
them.  But  poor  Geoffrey  Chaucer  must  needs  read  them,  if 
his  noble  mistress  so  willed,  and  we  can  see  him,  as  night  after 
night  he  took  up  the  thread  of  some  interminable,  high-flown 
story — his  sly  glance  round  to  test  the  appreciation  of  his 
audience,  the  half-amused  impatience  which  he  must  hide 
under  an  outward  appearance  of  courteous  interest.     But  he 

79 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

remembered  these  long-winded  romances,  and  when,  years 
afterward,  he  made  fine  sport  of  them  in  his  Tale  of  Sir 
Thopas,  he  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  host  of  the  Tabard  Inn  his 
long-delayed  but  not  less  lively  criticism  : 

"  No  more  of  this,  for  Goddes  dignitee  1  " 

Quoth  our  Hoste,  "  for  thou  makest  me 

So  wery  of  thy  very  lewednesse 

That,  also  wisly  God  my  soule  blesse, 

Myn  eeres  aken  of  thy  drasty  speche. 

Thy  drasty  ryming  is  not  worth  a  flye  ; 

Thou  dost  nought  else  but  spendist  al  our  tyme." 

In  Long  Will,  a  novel  which  deals  with  the  days  of  I^angland 
and  Chaucer,  the  author  has  imagined  a  meeting  between  the 
two  poets  on  the  Malvern  Hills,  on  the  occasion  of  the  train 
of  the  Duchess  of  Clarence  stopping  for  a  few  nights  at 
Malvern  Priory.  It  is  not  impossible  that  such  a  meeting 
did  take  place,  though  we  must  fear  that  it  is  improbable. 
Coincidence  can  scarcely  be  trusted  to  have  brought  about 
an  event  so  altogether  interesting  and  delightful ;  but 
there  could  be  few  exercises  of  the  imagination  more  helpful 
to  the  student  in  forming  a  conception  of  the  spirit  and 
temper  of  the  two  poets,  than  to  picture  for  himself  such  a 
meeting. 

Chaucer  did  not  long  remain  in  the  service  of  the  Duchess. 
In  the  autumn  of  1359  ^^  was  with  the  army  of  Edward  III  in 
France.  He  was  taken  prisoner,  and  released,  in  1360,  by  the 
Treaty  of  Bretigny,  on  payment  of  a  ransom.  He  probably 
returned  at  once  to  England.  It  is  difficult  to  think  of  Chaucer 
as  a  soldier — perhaps  he  was  employed  in  some  other  capacity. 
In  any  case,  his  short  military  experience  was  of  great  value 
to  him.  It  helped  him  to  describe  his  "  verray  parfit  gentil 
knight,"  and  to  add  little  details  which  give  an  air  of  reality  to 
his  descriptions  of  various  encounters. 

The  history  of  the  next  ten  years  of  Chaucer's  life  has  to  be 
gathered  from  scanty  notices  contained  in  official  documents, 
and  from  references  in  his  own  works.  These  seem  to  show 
that  he  entered  the  royal  household  as  "  valet  of  the  King's 
Chamber  "  soon  after  1360,  and  that  while  he  held  this  position 
80 


Chaucer  reading  to  Edward  III] 

Ford  Madox  Brown 
fboto.  W.  A.  lUnieU  A  Oo. 


I 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 

he  fell  desperately  in  love  with  a  lady  whose  high  rank 
made  his  suit  hopeless.  Like  Palamon,  in  his  Knighte's  Tale, 
he  complains  : 

Thy  fresshe  beautee  sleeth  me  sodeynly. 
And  but  I  have  hir  mercy  and  hir  grace, 
That  I  may  seen  her  atte  leste  weye 
I  nam  but  deed  ;  there  nis  no  more  to  seye. 

Some  part  of  the  fervour  of  the  language  which  he  uses  in  his 
poems  written  at  this  time  is  probably  due  to  the  fashion  of 
the  day.  The  necessity  which  the  laws  of  chivalry  laid  upon 
every  true  knight  of  professing  a  profound  devotion  to  the 
lady  of  his  love  had  had  a  great  influence  on  literature  ;  and 
the  Courts  of  Love — assemblies  of  knights  and  ladies  that  laid 
down  exact  rules  as  to  the  behaviour  and  duties  of  a  lover — 
had  made  it  incumbent  on  every  poet  to  write  in  high-flown, 
exaggerated  style  of  his  lady's  beauty  and  his  own  passion. 
The  Courts  of  Love  were  introduced  into  England  from 
France,  and  French  influence  was  at  this  time  at  its  height 
in  England.  Chaucer,  living  as  he  did  in  the  very  centre  of 
Court  influence,  was  largely  affected,  as  is  seen  in  all  the  poems 
he  wrote  at  this  period,  which  is  commonly  known  as  his 
French  period. 

The  opening  of  the  next  decade  saw  the  poet  entering 
upon  a  new  series  of  experiences.  Between  1370  and  1380  he 
was  sent  on  seven  diplomatic  missions  to  various  countries 
of  Europe.  A  journey  which  he  made  to  Italy  in  1372  was  the 
most  important  of  these.  He  was  absent  nearly  twelve  months, 
and  visited  several  ItaHan  cities.  At  this  time  Petrarch  was 
Hving  in  a  small  village  near  Padua,  and  the  early  biographers 
of  Chaucer  state  that -a  meeting  took  place  between  the  two 
poets.  There  is  no  reliable  evidence  that  this  was  so,  though 
it  seems  highly  probable.  Chaucer,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  poet  conscious  of  the  power  to  do  greater  things  than  any  he 
had  yet  done,  would  naturally  be  anxious  to  see  the  older  poet 
who,  at  nearly  seventy  years  of  age  had  such  a  splendid  record 
behind  him,  not  only  of  works  that  he  had  written  but  of  service 
rendered  in  searching  out  and  bringing  to  light  the  great  works 

F  8i 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

of  early  classical  literature.    In  the  Canterbury  Tales  Chaucer 
makes  his  Clerk  of  Oxenf  ord  say  : 

I  will  you  tell  a  tale,  which  that  I 

Lemed  at  Padowe  of  a  worthy  clerk,  1 

Y  proved  by  his  wordes  and  his  werk.  { 

He  is  now  ded,  and  nayl^d  in  his  chest, 

I  pray  to  God  so  yeve  his  soule  rest ! 

Praunces  Petrark,  the  laureat  po^te, 

Highte  this  clerk,  whose  retoricke  swete 

Illumynd  al  Ytail  of  poetrie.  .  .  .  ,,; 

But  forth  to  tellen  of  this  worthy  man,  '^ 

That  taughte  me  this  tale.  ) 

There  has  been  a  general  belief  that  in  these  words  Chaucer  ] 
was  referring  to  his  own  experiences.     The  tale  is  the  beautiful  I 
story   of   Griselda,    a   version  of   which  Petrarch   wrote  in 
Latin.  ^ 

Soon  after  Chaucer's  return  from  this  mission  it  is  probable  ] 
that  he  married  Philippa,  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Queen's  ; 
Chamber,  who  was  not  the  lady  of  his  early  love.  We  know 
nothing  about  her,  except  through  references  in  official  docu-  ] 
ments,  and  nothing  at  all  about  their  married  life.  In  1374  the  ; 
Corporation  of  lyondon  granted  to  Chaucer  a  lease  for  his  hfe  | 
of  "  the  whole  of  the  dwelling-house  above  the  gate  of  Aldgate,  | 
with  the  rooms  built  over,  and  a  certain  cellar  beneath  the  i 
same  gate."  A  lucrative  Court  appointment  and  a  pension  \ 
were  given  to  him,  and,  with  a  comfortable  income,  he  settled  j 
down  to  the  quiet,  studious  life  which  he  loved  far  better  than  j 
the  busy  and  brilliant  scenes  in  which,  so  far,  the  greater  part  ! 
of  his  time  had  been  of  necessity  passed.  Not  far  away  I^ang- 
land  in  his  poor  house  on  Cornhill  was  living  hardly  and  toiling  \ 
at  work  which  was  distasteful  to  him,  and,  through  all,  building 
up  his  great  poem.  Chaucer,  too,  was  busy  ;  he  was  produc-  \ 
ing  work  which  showed  in  a  very  marked  manner  the  influence  ! 
of  his  stay  in  Italy,  and  of  the  study  of  Itahan  literature  which  ] 
the  visit  had  inspired.  When  the  work  that  his  appoint- 
ment required  was  done  he  came  back  to  his  rooms  at  Aldgate,  , 
and  there  in  the  city  he  loved,  with  the  sounds  of  busy  life  ' 
coming  up  from  the  street  below  and  giving  him  the  sense  of  \ 
human  companionship  that  was  so  necessary  to  him,  he  sat   , 

82  ! 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 

down  to  study  and  to  write.     He  says  of  himself  in  his  House 
of  Fame  : 

Thou  herest  neyther  that  nor  this. 
For  when  thy  labour  doon  al  ys, 
And  hast  made  al  thy  rekennynges, 
Instede  of  reste  and  newe  thynges. 
Thou  goost  home  to  thy  house  anoon, 
And,  al  so  domb  as  any  stoon, 
Thou  sittest  at  another  booke, 
Tyl  fully  dasewyd  ys  thy  looke. 
And  lyvest  thus  as  an  heremyte. 
Although  thyn  abstynence  ys  lite. 

In  this  last  line  Chaucer,  in  his  own  characteristic  manner, 
pokes  sly  fun  at  himself.  His  "  abstinence  is  little,"  he  is  no 
ascetic,  but  enjoys  all  the  good  things  of  this  world,  including 
good  things  to  eat  and  drink. 

This  quiet  life  was  not  uninterrupted.  Other  missions, 
followed  by  other  grants  and  rewards,  were  undertaken  from 
time  to  time.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  gone  abroad  after 
1380,  but  the  duties  of  his  various  appointments  kept  his  time 
well  occupied  at  home.  In  1386  the  tide  of  his  good  fortune 
turned.  King  Edward  III  had  died  in  1377,  and  the  young 
king  was  in  the  hands  of  guardians.  Of  these  John  of  Gaunt 
had  always  been  Chaucer's  great  friend  and  supporter  ;  but  now 
John  of  Gaunt  was  abroad,  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  was  at 
the  head  of  affairs.  He  regarded  Chaucer  as  a  supporter  of  the 
party  opposed  to  his  own,  and  dismissed  him  from  his  posts. 
Soon  we  find  Chaucer  in  money  difficulties,  raising  small  sums 
on  the  two  pensions  that  remained  to  him — though  these  also 
two  years  after  were  taken  away.  In  1387  his  wife  died.  Yet 
in  this,  the  darkest  hour  of  his  hfe,  he  lost  neither  courage  nor 
energy.  In  the  midst  of  poverty  and  distress  he  began  his 
Canterbury  Tales,  the  greatest  of  all  his  works. 

The  worst  pressure  of  poverty  was  removed  when,  in  1389, 
the  I^ancastrian  party  was  restored  to  power,  and  Chaucer 
was  appointed  Clerk  of  the  King's  Works  at  Westminster. 
Other  small  appointments  and  pensions  followed,  but  the  poet 
seems  never  again  to  have  been  in  comfortable  circumstances. 
Perhaps  in  the  dark  years  from  1386  to  1389  he  had  become 

83 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

so  deeply  involved  in  debt  that  he  was  unable  to  clear  him- 
self. However  this  may  be,  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  were 
undoubtedly  shadowed  by  poverty,  and  probably  by  ill- 
health.  The  brilliant,  successful  days  were  over,  but  the  poet 
did  not  sit  down  and  sigh  for  what  he  had  lost.  He  did  better 
than  that ;  by  the  power  of  his  imagination  he  recreated  the 
past,  and  in  his  lonely  rooms  above  the  Aldgate  gateway  he 
called  up  around  him  the  figures  which  had  been  familiar  to 
his  boyhood  and  earher  manhood,  and  gave  to  them  a  certain 

^  immortality.  All  that  he  had  learnt  of  men,  of  life,  and  of 
books,  all  that  he  had  felt,  and  enjoyed,  and  suffered,  all  the 
unquenchable  fun  and  humour  that  had  survived  his  troubles, 
all  the  fine  charity  and  mellow  judgment  that  years  had 
brought,  these  the  genius  of  the  poet  wrought  into  his  great 
crowning,  representative  work. 

The  French  and  Italian  influences  which  had  so  strongly 
affected  Chaucer's  earlier  poems  had  by  this  time  lost  their 
predominance  and  become  only  single  elements  in  the  whole 
vast  mass  of   memories  that  were  shaping  his  work.    The 

I  Canterbury  Tales  are  entirely  English  in  tone  and  spirit.  The 
main  idea  of  the  framework  is  essentially  English.  Twenty- 
nine  pilgrims,  bound  for  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  at  Canter- 
bury, meet  at  a  London  inn.  They  agree  to  travel  together, 
and  agree,  also,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  host,  each  to  tell  two 
stories  to  enliven  the  way.  Only  twenty-four  of  the  stories 
were  written,  and  these,  with  the  wonderful  Prologue,  make 
up  the  Canterbury  Tales.  It  is  interesting  to  consider  each  of  the 
characters  and  each  of  the  stories  in  connexion  with  the  known 
facts  of  Chaucer's  life  and  to  note  the  wonderful  skill  with  which 
he  has  used  the  material  that  his  varied  experience  has  provided. 
He  gives  us,  incidentally,  a  portrait  of  himself  in  his  later 
years,  for  he  himself  is  one  of  the  pilgrims  whom  he  represents 
as  taking  part  in  that  memorable  ride.  The  host  of  the 
Tabard  Inn  thus  addresses  him  : 

Oure  Host  to  jape  then  bigan 
And  then  at  erst  he  loked  upon  me, 
And  sayde  thus  ;  "  What  man  art  thou  ?  "  quoth  he. 

84 


L 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 

"  Thou  lokest  as  thou  woldest  fynde  an  hare, 

For  ever  upon  the  ground  I  see  thee  stare. 

Approche  near,  and  loke  up  merily. 

Now  ware  you,  sirs,  and  let  this  man  have  place. 

He  in  the  waist  is  shape  as  wel  as  I ; 

This  were  a  popet  in  an  arm  to  embrace 

For  any  woman,  smal  and  fair  of  face. 

He  semeth  elvish  by  his  countenance, 

For  unto  no  wight  doth  he  dahaunce." 

Chaucer,  it  seems,  had  grown  portly  as  the  years  had  gone  on. 
His  retiring  habits  had  been  strengthened,  and  he  went  about, 
avoiding  as  far  as  possible  the  notice  of  his  fellows.  But  his 
interest  in  life  had  not  decreased,  and  his  downcast  eyes  were 
as  keenly  observant  as  they  had  ever  been. 

The  Canterbury  Tales  were  probably  begun  in  1388,  and 
as  each  was  finished  it  was  given  to  the  public.  The  tales 
won  immediate  popularity.  Chaucer's  fellow  poets  recognized 
that  a  greater  than  themselves  had  arisen,  and  they  gave  him 
warm  and  generous  praise.  Nothing  like  this  had  been  seen 
before  in  England ;  even  Chaucer's  own  earlier  works  could 
not  compare  with  his  latest  achievement.  Here  was  true 
poetry,  breadth  of  movement,  free  and  generous  character- 
painting.  A  new  era  in  the  history  of  poetry  had  opened,  a 
way  had  been  made  in  which  other  men  might  follow  The 
sky  was  bright  with  promise  of  a  great  time  to  come. 

At  the  end  of  1399  Chaucer  removed  from  his  Aldgate 
dwelling  to  a  house  in  the  garden  of  the  Chapel  of  St.  Mary, 
Westminster,  and  here,  less  than  a  year  afterward,  he  died. 
As  far  as  we  know  he  left  no  descendants  ;  his  one  son,  I^ewis, 
probably  died  young.  Chaucer  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  about  two  hundred  years  later  a  monument  was 
erected  to  his  memory,  which  was  the  beginning  of  what  is  now 
known  as  "  Poet's  Comer." 

Fifty  manuscripts  of  the  Tales  are  known  to  be  in  existence 
at  the  present  time.  Not  one  of  these  copies  was  made  in 
Chaucer's  hfetime,  but  several  date  from  the  fifty  years  that 
followed  his  death.  Caxton  printed  the  Canterbury  Tales  at  his 
press  at  Westminster  in  1478  and  again  in  1483.  In  his  preface 
to  this  edition  he  praised  the  book  with  great  warmth.     "  He 

85 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

(Chaucer)  excelleth  in  my  opinion,"  he  wrote,  *'  all  other  writers 
in  English  ;  for  he  writeth  no  void  words,  but  all  his  matter  is 
full  of  high  and  quick  sentence." 

Chaucer  continued  to  be  held  in  high  esteem  until  toward 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  His  fame  declined  steadily 
throughout  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  although 
during  that  period  he  received  generous  appreciation  from 
the  poet  Dry  den,  whose  pronouncement,  "  Here  is  God's 
plenty,"  still  stands,  by  virtue  of  its  terseness  and  compre- 
hensiveness, first  among  all  the  critical  judgments  that  have 
been  passed  upon  the  Canterbury  Tales.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  chance  that  the  works  of  our  first  great  English  poet  would 
pass  into  the  ranks  of  the  unread  books,  which  are  only 
remembered  because  they  once  were  famous.  But  toward  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century  came  a  change.  A  new  edition  of 
Chaucer's  works  was  published  by  Thomas  Tyrwhitt,  and  this 
gave  a  great  impulse  to  Chaucerian  study.  During  the  nine- 
teenth century  Chaucer  regained  his  former  position,  and 
stands  now,  by  common  consent,  in  the  very  front  rank  of 
great  poets,  with  Shakespeare,  Milton  and  Spenser. 


86 


CHAPTER  X 

WICLIFS    BIBLE 

THERE  is  no  work  which  has  had  such  an  immense 
influence  on  the  language  and  literature  of  England 
as  the  English  translation  of  the  Bible.  From  thci 
sixteenth  century  onward  it  has  coloured  both  the  literary- 
diction  of  our  great  writers,  and  the  common  speech  of  the 
people.  Milton's  style  may  be  said  to  be  founded  upon  it. 
Ruskin  declared  that  any  excellences  his  own  prose  writings 
possess  are  due  to  the  fact  that  his  mother  made  him,  during 
his  boyhood,  read  the  whole  Bible  through  every  year,  and 
learn  large  portions  by  heart.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that 
one  can  read  even  a  few  pages  of  any  great  author  without 
being  able  to  trace  the  influence  of  the  Bible  either  in  the 
phraseology  or  the  turns  of  the  sentences.  In  the  everyday 
speech  of  ordinary  people  there  is  a  large,  unconscious  ad- 
mixture of  Biblical  language,  which  marks  how  thoroughly 
the  English  Bible  has  become  the  property  of  the  Enghsh  nation. 
As  a  piece  of  literature,  entirely  apart  from  its  supreme  value 
as  the  sacred  book  of  the  Christian  religion,  the  Bible  holds 
a  unique  and  remarkable  position. 

Many  names  are  connected  with  the  story  of  the  English 
Bible,  and  one  of  the  most  honoured  of  these  is  John  Wiclif. 
Wiclif,  like  Chaucer,  belonged  to  that  great  awakening  period 
of  the  fourteenth  century  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  mental  habits 
of  the  Middle  Ages  were  breaking  up,  and  new  ideals,  new 
methods,  and  new  standards  were  to  take  the  place  of  the  old. 
The  movement,  as  we  shall  see,  died  out,  but  the  work  of 
Wiclif  as  well  as  the  work  of  Chaucer  remained,  and  exercised 
a  great  and  lasting  influence  on  the  literature  of  succeeding  ages. 

87 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Nothing  in  Wiclif's  early  life  gave  any  promise  of  the  work 
he  was  to  do  in  his  later  years.  He  belonged  to  an  old  and 
wealthy  north  country  family,  and  was  born  about  1324. 
He  went  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  where  he  greatly  dis- 
tinguished himself,  and  when  he  was  about  thirty-five  he  became 
Master  of  Balliol  College.  Soon  he  was  known  as  the  foremost 
of  the  Schoolmen.  The  great  educational  movement  of  the 
Middle  Ages  was  Scholasticism,  which  began  to  emerge  from 
earlier  systems  in  the  eighth  century,  reached  its  height  in 
the  thirteenth,  then  gradually  died  away  until  the  Renaissance 
brought  it  to  extinction.  It  consisted  in  the  study  of  early 
lyatin  philosophic  writings,  and  the  application  of  the 
principles  laid  down  in  these  to  the  teaching  of  the  Church. 
If  the  two  would  not  readily  agree,  they  were  commented 
upon  and  their  meaning  twisted  until  it  was  possible  to  fit 
them  into  the  accepted  scheme.  Naturally  such  a  system 
gave  rise  to  endless  arguments  on  minute  points,  and  the 
man  who  could  best  follow  out  a  long  and  complicated  chain 
of  reasoning  in  which  the  finest  distinctions  were  made  and 
the  subtlest  of  arguments  introduced  was  accounted  the  best 
scholar.  To  do  this  adequately,  it  must  be  remembered, 
required  an  acquaintance  with  almost  all  that  it  was  then 
possible  to  learn  of  science,  mathematics,  and  Hterature.  But 
the  splitting  of  straws  sometimes  reached  a  point  where  it 
became  not  only  futile,  but  absurd.  We  are  told,  for  example, 
that  these  grave  and  learned  Schoolmen,  arguing  upon  the 
nature  and  constitution  of  the  angels,  occupied  themselves 
in  a  profound  discussion  as  to  how  many  of  these  beings  could 
stand  on  the  point  of  a  needle. 

Among  these  subtle  metaphysicians  Wiclif,  as  has  been  said, 
stood  first.  His  fine  keen  mind  delighted  in  matching  itself 
against  other  minds  in  strenuous  logical  exercises,  and  for  a  time 
this  seems  to  have  occupied  a  great  part  of  his  energies.  But 
soon  his  study  of  the  Scriptures  and  of  ecclesiastical  matters 
gave  him  more  serious  and  engrossing  subjects  of  thought. 
Here  were  questions  of  living  interest,  involving  men's  welfare 
in  this  world  and  in  the  world  to  come.  The  Church  on  earth 
F8 


JohnrWiclif 


88 


KWICLIF'S  BIBLE 
as  very  far  from  the  ideal  state  which,  theoretically,  was  hers. 
Greed,  oppression  and  corruption  sullied  her,  and  she  had 
ceased  to  fulfil  her  great  mission.  Wiclif  turned  from  subtle 
disquisitions  on  abstract  subjects  to  the  consideration  of  the 
practical  abuses  of  his  time. 

The  great  fight,  which  was  to  go  on  throughout  the  last 
twenty  years  of  Wiclif's  life,  began.     He  was  not  the  first 
fighter,  but  he  was  the  strongest  and  most  determined  that 
had  yet  appeared.     His  frail  body,  worn  by  study  and  discipline, 
matched  but  ill  his  strong  and  resolute  spirit.     He  was,  says 
one  of  his  followers,  "  held  by  many  the  holiest  of  all  in  his 
day,  lean  of  body,  spare  and  almost  deprived  of  strength,  most 
pure  in  his  life.'*     He  faced  not  only  the  thunders  of  the  Pope, 
but  the  yells  and  shouts  of  angry  mobs  with  a  fine  courage  ;  and 
never  wavered  in  the  position  which  he  had  taken  up.    A  band 
of  devoted  followers  gathered  round  him,  for  he  seems  to  have 
possessed  that  personal  charm  which  is  so  often  a  characteristic 
of  leaders  in  great  movements.    Some  of  his  friends  were 
powerful  enough  to  give  him  valuable  protection,  and  chief  of 
these  was  John  of  Gaunt,  though  in  his  case  it  was  not  any 
special  care  for  Wichf  and  his  work  which  supphed  the  motive, 
but,  rather,  considerations  of  pohcy.     It  is  not  proposed  to  tell 
here  in  detail  the  story  of  Wichf's  long  struggle :    how  from 
criticizing  the  practice  of  the  Church  he  advanced  to  a  criticism 
of  her  doctrine,  and  so  lost  his  most  powerful  friends  ;  how  he 
organized  his  band  of  '  Poor  Priests,'  and  sent  them  through- 
out England  to  teach  the  pure  word  of  God  ;  how  the  band  of 
'  I/ollards '  as  his  followers  were  mockingly  called,  increased 
in  numbers  and  in  enthusiasm.     All  these  things  belong  to 
history,  but  not  to  the  history  of  Wiclif's  Bible.    We  will 
take  up  the  story  at  the  point  when  Wiclif,  expelled  from 
Oxford  and  condemned  by  the  Archbishop's  Council,  settled 
down  in  his  little  parish  of  IvUtterworth  in  Leicestershire, 
retiring  for  a  breathing-space  from  the  thickest  of  the  conflict. 
The  days  of  active  fighting  were  over,  but  Wiclif's  work 
was  not  yet  done.    The  old  man  of  sixty  had  yet  to  accomplish 
that  which,  of  itself,  would  have  sufficed  to  make  his  name 

89 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

famous  throughout  the  ages.     For  many  years  he  had  earnestly 

desired  that  the  Bible  might  be  rendered  into  the  native  j 

tongue  of  the  people.     Christ,  said  Wiclif,  when  he  was  on  : 

earth  with  his  disciples  "  taughte  hem  oute  this  prayer  (the  i 

lyord's  Prayer)  bot  be  thou  syker,  nother  in  I^atin,  nother  in  | 

Frensche,    bot    in    the    langage  that  they  used  to  speke."  i 

When,  therefore,  a  time  of  comparative  leisure  came  to  him,  \ 

he  eagerly  took  up  the  work  of  translation.     Several  of  his  i 

followers  were  with  him  at  I^utterworth.    There  was  John  ] 

Purvey,  his  curate,  who  had  several  times  suffered  persecu-  \ 

tion  and  imprisonment  for  what  the  Church  called  his  heretical  \ 

opinions.    There  was  Nicholas  Hereford,  a  scholar,  who  had  ; 

worked  with  Wiclif  at  Oxford,  and  like  him  had  been  cited  ] 

before  the  council  at  lyondon ;    and  there  were  others  of  less  : 

note.     The  translation  was  the  joint  work  of  the  band,  and  it  j 

is  probable  that  Wiclif  himself  only  translated  a  part  of  the  i 

New  Testament.     But  he  was  the  inspiration  of  all  that  was  - 

done,  and  the  resulting  version  of  the  Scriptures  may  with  | 

justice  be  called,  Wiclif 's  Bible.  I 

The  English  were  at  this  time  not  entirely  without  native  J 

versions  of  the  Scriptures.     The  earliest  of  these  was  Csedmon's  j 

paraphrase  (see  p.  26),  which  belongs  to  the  seventh  century.  ^ 

Alfred  the  Great,  in  the  ninth  century,  translated  the  Psalms,  j 

the  Commandments,  the  21st,  22nd,  and  part  of  the  23rd  : 

chapters  of  Exodus.     Other  versions  of  the  various  parts  of  ; 

the  Bible — the  Gospels,  the  Pentateuch,  and  the  historical  books  ^ 

— were  probably  in  existence  before  the  Conquest,  judging  j 
from  the  evidence  of  the  literature  of  the  time,  but  these  have 
been  lost.  In  the  twelfth  or  early  thirteenth  century,  Orm, 
a  monk  of  the  order  of  Augustine,  wrote  a  metrical  version  of 
the  Gospels  and  the  Acts,  which  extended  to  20,000  lines. 
This  is  known  as  Orm's  Ormulum.  Early  in  the  fourteenth 
century  William  of  Shoreham  translated  the  Psalms,  of  which 
several  other  versions  had  been  made  by  unknown  authors 
during  the  century  preceding. 

All  these  translations  Wiclif  might  have  had  to  help  him 
in  his  work,  but  we  do  not  think  he  consulted  any  of  them. 
90 


WICLIF'S    BIBLE 

His  translation  was  made  from  the  Vulgate,  the  Latin 
version  of  the  Bible  made  by  St.  Jerome  about  383.  Neither 
Wiclif  nor  his  disciples  understood  the  original  Greek  or 
Hebrew.  Latin  was  the  language  of  the  Schoolmen  ;  Greek 
came  only  with  the  Renaissance.  The  translation  was 
designed  for  simple  and  unlearned  men,  and  this  the  translators 
seem  to  have  kept  well  in  mind  throughout.  The  language  is 
simple  and  vigorous,  the  true  language  of  the  people,  though 
it  sometimes  becomes  awkward  and  stilted  by  following  too 
closely  the  idiom  of  the  Latin  original.  Their  rendering  of 
part  of  Psalm  VIII  may  be  given  as  a  specimen  : 

1.  Lord  oure  Lord ;  hou  myche  mervellous  is  thi  name  in  al 
the  erthe. 

2.  For  rered  up  is  thi  grete  doing,  over  hevenes. 

3.  Of  the  mouth  of  unspekende  childer  and  soukende  thou 
performedist  praising,  for  thin  enemys ;  that  thou  destroye  the 
enemy  and  the  ventiere. 

4.  For  I  shal  see  thin  hevenes,  the  werkis  of  thi  fingris ;  the 
mone  and  the  sterris,  that  thou  hast  founded. 

For  the  last  two  years  of  Wiclif 's  life  (1382-1384)  he  was,  one 
of  his  early  biographers  tells  us,  partially  paralysed.  But  in 
spite  of  this  the  amount  of  work  he  is  known  to  have  done  is 
enormous.  Tract  after  tract  was  issued  and  sent  through  the 
country,  written  in  the  homely,  vigorous  prose  characteristic 
of  him.  His  sermons  and  his  duties  at  the  parish  church  were 
not  neglected.     He  died  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1384. 

After  Wiclif's  death  it  is  probable  that  John  Purvey  under- 
took a  revision  and  retranslation  of  the  Bible,  at  which  they 
had  worked  together.  This  version  is  freer  in  its  style  than 
the  previous  one,  and  is  not  such  an  absolutely  hteral  transla- 
tion of  the  Latin.  The  method  employed  is  set  down  by  the 
translator  in  his  very  interesting  preface.  "  A  simple  creature,*' 
he  says,  "  hath  translated  the  Bible  out  of  Latin  into  English. 
First  this  simple  creature  had  much  travail,  with  divers 
fellows  and  helpers  to  gather  many  old  Bibles  and  other  doctors' 
and  common  glosses,  and  to  make  one  Latin  Bible  some  deal 
true  ;  and  then  to  study  it  anew,  the  text  with  the  gloss  and 
other  doctors  as  he  might  get,  and  specially  Lire  (Nicholas  de 

91 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Lyra,  a  celebrated  commentator  on  the  Scriptures)  on  the 
Old  Testament,  that  helped  full  much  in  this  work  ;  the  third 
time  to  counsel  with  old  grammarians  and  old  divines,  of  hard 
words  and  hard  sentences,  how  they  might  best  be  understood 
and  translated ;  the  fourth  time  to  translate  as  clearly  as  he 
could  to  the  sense,  and  to  have  many  good  fellows  and  cunning 
at  the  correcting  of  the  translation/' 

Both  these  versions  were  extensively  used  among  the  people, 
until  the  growing  feeling  against  lyoUardry  caused  them  to  be 
prohibited,  because  they  were  the  work  of  I/oUard  writers. 
But  no  very  active  steps  were  taken,  and  many  faithful 
Churchmen  possessed  copies  of  the  Wicliffite  versions  of  the 
Holy  Scripture.  One  hundred  and  seventy  manuscripts  of 
Wiclif's  Bible  are  still  in  existence,  testifying  to  the  number 
which  must  have  been  made  in  the  days  before  printing 
became  common. 


92 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    VOIAGE   AND   TRAVAILE   OF  SIR 
JOHN    MANDEVILLE 

THE  title  of  '  the  father  of  EngHsh  prose  *  is  usually 
given  to  John  Wiclif,  but  he  has  a  rival  in  the  person 
of  a  younger  contemporary,  the  much-travelled  and 
ingenuous  Sir  John  Mandeville,  knight.  This  rival  has  grown 
more  formidable  as  time  has  gone  on,  especially  (though  this 
statement  may  appear  to  be  in  the  nature  of  an  Irish  bull)  since 
it  has  been  established  beyond  all  reasonable  doubt  that  no  such 
person  ever  existed.  The  meaning  of  this  paradox  is  that 
^critics  in  modem  times  have  been  busily  at  work  on  the  book, 
and  have  been  led  to  appreciate  more  and  more  fully  the  ease, 
fluency  and  vigour  of  the  language,  and  the  flexibility  which 
makes  it  fit  for  all  the  various  purposes  of  hterary  narrative ; 
while  at  the  same  time  they  have  discovered  such  discrepancies 
between  the  writer's  account  of  himself  and  his  book,  and  ascer- 
tained facts,  as  have  made  them  conclude  that  the  Sir  John 
Mandeville  who  is  credited  with  so  many  adventures  is  an 
altogether  fictitious  person.  ^ 

We  will,  however,  take  the  knight's  account  of  himself  as  it 
stands,  and  make  some  examination  of  his  book  before  we 
proceed  to  the  destructive  criticism  which,  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  laid  low  the  famous  figure  that  for  four  hundred  and 
fifty  years  had  been  familiar  not  to  England  only,  but  to  all 
Europe.  The  first  book  of  the  Travels  was  sent  out  from 
Liege  toward  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century.  The  author 
states  that  his  name  is  Jehan  de  Mandeville,  that  he  is  an 
English  knight,  bom  at  St.  Albans,  that  he  crossed  the  sea  on 
Michaelmas  Day  1322,  and  started  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem. 

93 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ;l 

His  travels  were  extended  far  beyond  their  original  goal,  and  he 
claims  to  have  visited  every  part  of  the  known  world.     In 
1343  he  turned  homeward,  and  on  his  way  was  attacked  by 
arthritic  gout,  which  forced  him  to  remain  for  some  time  at  ] 
lyiege.     He  was  attended  by  '  Dr.  John,'  a  physician  whom  he  j 
had  previously  met  at  Cairo,  and  it  was  at  the  physician's  ; 
suggestion  that  Sir  John  Mandeville,  to  beguile  the  tedium  of  ; 
his  illness,  wrote  a  book  describing  his  travels.    The  book  was  i 
finished  in  1357.  \ 

To  this  account  must  be  added  the  story  of  the  claim  made  ] 
by  a  famous  physician  of  I^i^ge  who  died  in  1372.  He  was  j 
known  as  "  Jean  de  Bourgogne  dit  k  la  Barbe."  On  his  death-  ] 
bed  he  stated  that  he  was  an  Englishman,  and  that  his  real  name  \ 
was  "  Messire  Jean  de  Mandeville,  Chevalier  Comte  de  Montfort  ^ 
en  Angleterre,  et  Seigneur  de  I'isle  de  Campdi  et  du  Chateau  i 
Perouse."  He  had  left  his  country  in  consequence  of  having  ; 
killed  "  a  Count  or  Karl,"  and  had  undertaken  a  long  pil- 
grimage ;   this  being  finished  he  had  settled  down  at  lyi^ge  in  '■ 

1343.                                                                      ^  ; 

So  much  for  Sir  John  Mandeville.    As  for  his  book  it  claims  ] 

to  be  a  guide  for  pilgrims  to  Jerusalem,   and  describes  all  j 

possible  routes  by  which  the  Holy  City  may  be  reached  from  j 

Europe.     It  is  written  in  simple,  straightforward  narrative  ' 

style,  and  it  goes  on  smoothly  and  easily  from  point  to  point.  \ 

There  is  no  striving  after  effect,  no  apparent  desire  to  be  i 

instructive,  improving  or  striking ;    the  writer  aims  only  at  • 

being  entertaining.     Yet  there  is  no  flippancy  and  little  con-  , 

scions  humour.     In  quiet,  dignified  fashion  Sir  John  tells  of  ; 

things  that  interested  him  and  that  he  believes  will  interest  his  i 
readers. 

^  The  book  is  crammed  with  stories  of  every  kind,  and  frag-  ; 

ments  of  every  species  of  learning.     There  are  legends  of  | 
saints.  Scripture  narratives,  tales  of  dragons  and  enchanters, 

of  fabulous  beasts  and  haunted  solitudes  ;  there  are  scraps  of  ' 

natural  history,  of  geology,  of  botany,  of  classical  learning,  of  . 

history,  of  medicine.     Each  place  that  he  visited  had  its  marvel  \ 

or  its  legend./  At  Jaffa,  which  is  "  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  j 

94 


Sir  John  Mandeville 
From  a  MS.  of  the  XVth  century  in  the  British  Museum 


94 


Ip^         SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 

the  world,  founded  before  Noah's  flood,"  Sir  John  saw  marks 
in  the  rock  "  there  as  the  iron  chains  were  fastened  that 
Andromeda,  a  great  giant,  was  bounden  with,  and  put  in 
prison  before  Noah's  flood,  of  the  which  giant  is  a  rib  of  his  side 
that  is  forty  feet  long."  In  Armenia  he  heard  of  the  "  sparrow- 
hawk  upon  a  perch,  right  fair  and  right  well-made,  and  a  fair 
lady  of  faerie  that  keepeth  it."  Whoever  will  watch  this 
sparrow-hawk  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  without  sleep,  his 
wish,  whatever  it  may  be,  will  be  granted  him.  This,  Sir 
John  gravely  tells  us,  he  knows  to  be  the  truth,  for  many  people 
have  so  obtained  their  desire,  and  he  proceeds  to  give  instances. 
In  Ethiopia  he  saw  folk  "  that  have  but  one  foot,  and  they 
go  so  fast  that  it  is  a  marvel,  and  the  foot  is  so  large  that  it 
shadoweth  all  the  body  against  the  sun  when  they  will  lie  and 
rest  them."  He  saw  also  men  with  no  heads,  whose  eyes  were 
in  their  shoulders  ;  men  whose  faces  were  flat  and  featureless, 
with  small  round  holes  for  their  eyes  and  mouth  ;  men  with 
underlips  so  large  that  they  could  lie  in  the  sun  and  draw 
them  over  their  faces  ;  men  who  had  ears  that  hung  down 
to  their  feet,  men  who  had  hoofs,  like  horses.  Marvellous 
trees,  too,  he  found  during  his  travels — trees  that  bore  apples  of 
Paradise,  marked  with  a  cross,  and  others  that  bore  apples  of 
Adam,  which  had  a  bite  out  of  the  side  ;  trees  that  bore  "  very 
short  gourds  which,  when  ripe,  men  open  and  find  a  little  beast 
with  flesh  and  blood  and  bone,  Hke  a  little  lamb."  He  tells 
us  of  the  "  field  of  seven  wells  "  which  Christ  made  with  his 
feet  when  he  went  to  play  there  with  other  children  ;  of  the 
field  Floridus,  near  Bethlehem,  which  is  full  of  roses,  for  there 
a  fair  maid,  who  had  been  wrongfully  accused,  was  taken  to  be 
burnt,  but  when  she  was  brought  to  the  fire,  it  immediately 
went  out,  and  the  burning  brands  turned  to  red  rose-trees, 
those  that  were  unkindled  to  white,  "  and  these  were  the  first 
rose-trees,  and  roses,  both  white  and  red,  that  ever  any  man 
saw  "  ;  of  the  garden  of  Gethsemane,  where  Christ  suffered,  and 
"  the  Jews  made  him  a  crown  of  the  branches  of  albespine, 
that  is  white  thorn,  and  set  it  on  his  head,  so  fast  and  so  sore, 
that  the  blood  ran  down  by  many  places  of  His  visage,  and  of 

95 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

His  neck,  and  of  His  shoulders.  And  therefore  hath  the  white- 
thorn many  virtues,  for  he  that  beareth  a  branch  on  him  thereof, 
no  thunder  ne  no  manner  of  tempest  may  dere  (hurt)  him  ; 
nor  in  the  house  that  it  is  in,  may  no  evil  ghost  enter  nor  come 
unto  the  place  that  it  is  in."  He  tells  of  the  wonderful  regions 
of  the  great  rulers  Pr ester  John  and  the  Great  Cham,  of  the 
fountain  of  youth,  the  earthly  paradise,  the  valley  of  devils,  the 
loadstone  mountains.  Neither  does  he  neglect  the  smaller 
details  of  the  people's  everyday  life ;  in  Tartary,  we  are  told, 
"  they  have  no  napery  ne  towels,  but  if  it  be  before  great  lords  : 
but  the  common  people  hath  none  "  ;  they  do  not  wash  their 
dishes,  eat  but  once  a  day,  and  "  live  full  wretchedly."  In 
Cairo  "  there  is  a  common  house  that  is  full  of  small  furnaces, 
and  thither  bring  women  of  the  town  their  eyren  [eggs]  of 
hens,  of  geese,  and  of  ducks  for  to  be  put  into  those  furnaces. 
And  at  the  end  of  three  weeks  or  a  month  they  come  again  and 
take  their  chickens  and  nourish  them  and  bring  them  forth,  so 
that  all  the  country  is  full  of  them." 

We  can  imagine  with  what  delight  our  ancestors  received 
this  book,  which  was  put  into  their  hands  during  the  closing 
years  of  the  fourteenth  century.  "  Ye  shall  understand,"  says 
its  author,  "  that  I  have  put  this  book  out  of  I^atin  into  French, 
and  translated  it  again  out  of  French  into  English,  that  every 
man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it."  This  statement, 
however,  like  most  of  those  that  the  author  has  made  concern- 
ing himself  and  his  book,  has  been  proved  to  be  incorrect.  In- 
ternal evidence  shows  that  the  French  version  was  written 
first ;  the  Latin  versions  are  evidently  translations  from  a 
French  original.  But  it  is  true  that  manuscripts  in  I^atin, 
French  and  English  were  circulated  during  the  last  years  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  these  were  commonly  believed  to  be 
the  work  of  Mandeville  himself.  The  work  became  immensely 
popular,  both  in  England  and  on  the  Continent.  There  are 
at  the  present  time  three  hundred  manuscripts  in  existence, 
showing  how  very  great  was  the  demand  for  copies. 

But  the  learning  of  modern  scholars  has  proved  the  undoing 
of  Sir  John  Mandeville.    Gradually,  the  works  which  were 

96 


\ 


Pilgrims  Setting  Out 

From  a  MS.  of  the  XVth  century  in  the  British  Museum 
The  principal  figure  (hailing  vessel)  is  probably  Sir  John  Mandeville 


96 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 

^pen  to  a  mediaeval  reader — not  only  great  and  famous  books, 
but  also  those  of  less  note — became  familiar  to  critics  of  a 
later  generation.  Curious  similarities  began  to  be  noticed 
between  the  adventures  of  Sir  John  and  the  adventures  of 
earlier  travellers.  Stories  contained  in  books  written  several 
centuries  before  his  time  were  found  to  be  identical  with  some 
of  his  most  famous  passages.  These  things  went  beyond  the 
limits  to  which  coincidence  could  extend — here  was  a  clear  case 
of  wholesale  borrowing.  The  clue  once  gained  was  keenly 
followed  up,  with  the  result  that  the  Voiage  and  Travaile  was 
proved  to  be  simply  a  compilation  from  books  of  all  kinds  and 
all  dates.  Chief  among  the  sources  thus  recognized  are  the 
account  of  the  First  Crusade  by  Albert  of  Aix,  written  in  the 
early  part  of  the  eleventh  century,  the  itinerary  of  William  of 
Boldensele,  1336,  and  various  pilgrims'  books  belonging  to  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  For  his  pygmies  and  giants 
the  compiler  has  evidently  gone  to  classical  sources,  for  his 
science  to  Pliny.  Scraps  have  been  taken  from  all  possible 
works  of  reference,  classical  and  mediaeval.  Nor  has  this  un- 
scrupulous pilferer  been  particular  as  to  the  use  made  of  his 
spoils.  A  note  concerning  Britain  in  Caesar's  Commentaries 
has  been  applied  to  Ceylon,  and  statements  relating  to  a  con- 
dition of  things  that  existed  three  hundred  years  before  have 
been  boldly  brought  up  to  date.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  the  skill 
with  which  the  compilation  has  been  made  is  wonderful.  The 
accumulation  of  material  is  so  cleverly  welded  together  that 
the  reader  has  no  suspicion  that  the  book  is  not  a  naturally 
developed  and  organic  whole. 

>^The  question  remains  as  to  who  really  was  the  author  or 
compiler  of  the  book.  The  answer  must  come  mainly  from 
the  internal  evidence  the  work  affords.  He  was  not  an 
Englishman,  for  he  shows  no  acquaintance  with  the  manners, 
customs,  or  physical  features  of  any  part  of  England,  while  of 
some  matters  with  which  an  Enghshman  would  naturally  be 
familiar — such  as  the  English  measurements  of  distance — 
he  is  obviously  ignorant.  He  never  visited  the  places  he 
described,  for  his  narrative  when  closely  examined  displays 

G  97 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

such  discrepancies  as  are  quite  incompatible  with  first-hand 
knowledge.  He  was  a  man  of  education,  of  wonderfully  wide 
and  varied  reading,  and  possessed  of  a  marvellous  memory.  He 
was  quite  free  from  boastfulness  and  egotism ;  he  has  told  us 
nothing  about  himself,  his  appearance,  or  his  prowess.  He 
wrote  like  a  gentleman,  with  a  simple  dignity  of  manner  and  an 
entire  freedom  from  coarseness  or  meanness  of  thought.  This 
is  all  that  we  can  say  about  him,  except  that  he  probably  lived 
at  lyiege,  whence  the  book  was  sent  out  some  time  before 
1371.  The  disappearance  of  "  Sir  John  Mandeville,  Knight," 
has  not,  however,  affected  the  value  of  the  Voiage  and  Travaile, 
and  this,  though  it  has  lost  some  of  the  fascination  that  it 
had  for  earlier  readers,  has  still  a  characteristic  interest  and 
charm.  ^ 


98 


The  Renaissance  Period 

THE  last  years  of  the  fourteenth  century  seemed  to 
promise  that  a  great  period  of  Hterary  activity  was  at 
hand.  After  the  death  of  Chaucer,  however,  the 
signs  that  had  been  so  hopeful  gradually  died  away.  No  great 
poet  arose  to  take  his  place,  and  his  imitators  wrote  without 
inspiration.  The  old  sources  of  stimulus — religion  and 
romance — worked  languidly  and  ineffectively.  In  all  our 
literary  history  there  is  no  period  so  unproductive  as  the 
fifteenth  century.  This  unproductiveness  is  partly  due  to  the 
long  and  wasting  wars  that  absorbed  the  energies  of  the  people. 
But  it  is  doubtful  whether,  even  under  the  most  favourable 
circumstances,  the  spirit  that  then  animated  our  literature 
would  have  been  able  of  itself  to  produce  any  very  vigorous 
results.  Some  impulse  from  outside  was  necessary  to  impart 
to  it  new  life  and  energy. 

The  impulse  came  through  that  great  awakening  movement 
which  during  the  late  fifteenth  and  early  sixteenth  centuries 
stirred  the  whole  of  Europe.  It  is  impossible  to  give  any  exact 
account  of  the  causes  to  which  the  movement  was  due.  The 
nations  of  Europe  had  reached  such  a  spiritual  and  mental 
condition  as  made  them  ready  for  change.  They  had  outgrown 
the  teaching  that  the  Middle  Ages  could  give  ;  mediaeval  ideals 
no  longer  awoke  their  enthusiasm  ;  they  were  waiting  for  new 
teaching  and  new  ideals.  Just  at  this  stage  a  series  of  events 
took  place  that  transformed  man's  conception  of  the  natural 
world.  Copernicus  showed  our  earth  to  be  a  minute  portion  of 
a  vast  universe.  Columbus  and  his  fellows  opened  out  upon  I 
the  earth  itself  vast  and  undreamt-of  regions  for  enterprise  and 
adventure.  The  mighty  literature  of  the  ancient  Greeks  re- 
vealed new  spiritual  and  intellectual  regions,  even  more  vast, 

99 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  I 

Men  responded  eagerly  to  the  stimulus  given  them,  and  the  j 
tremendous  activity  that  marked  the  Renaissance  period  was  i 
the  result.  j 
V  In  the  revival  of  letters  Italy  led  the  way,  and  her  progress  \ 
was  immensely  quickened  by  the  capture  of  Constantinople 
by  the  Turks  in  1453.  The  company  of  scholars  assembled  i 
there  fled,  carrying  with  them  the  precious  manuscripts  of  1 
ancient  Greece  which  had  been  treasured  in  the  great  library  j 
of  the  Eastern  capital.  Many  of  these  scholars  came  to  Italy,  j 
and  introduced  Greek  learning  there.  Famous  schools  arose^  ' 
and  students  from  all  parts  of  Europe  gathered  at  these  centres,  t 
The  cities  of  northern  Italy  were  specially  noted.  Thither  ' 
went  English  students  eager  for  this  hitherto  unattainable  ! 
learning.  They  brought  back  to  their  own  country  a  know- 
ledge of  Greek  literature,  and  all  the  wonderful  new  ideas  that  1 
such  knowledge  had  given  them.  So  began  the  Renaissance  i 
in  England.  j 

But  its  progress  was  slow.    The  small  band  of  scholars 
— ^Thomas  More,  Colet,  Grocyn,  lyinacre,  and  a  few  others 

— who  had  received  an  inspiration  from  Italy,  relied  upon  \ 

learning    and    culture  gradually  making  their  way  in  the  | 

country  and  transforming  national  life.     They  lectured  and  ; 

taught  at  the  Universities,  and  set  themselves  to  establish  ' 

schools  and  centres  of  learning  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  1 

lyiterature  soon  showed  signs  of  the  new  spirit  that  was  at  j 

work.     Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey  brought  ' 

from  Italy  the  new  Italian  verse  forms,  and  English  poetry  | 

5  entered  upon   a  fresh  stage   of   development.     Sir   Thomas  1 

jMore's  Utopia  is  representative  of  this  period — of  its  noble,  ] 

yet   sober    ideals,    its    delight   in   ctdture,    its   vision    of    a  | 
commonwealth  that  gave  ample  time  and  opportunities  for 

self -improvement.  i 

But  before  this  teaching  had  taken  any  hold  upon  the  country, 

a  new  development  of  the  Renaissance  spirit  overthrew  it  : 
almost  completely.     The  religious  ideals  of  the  Continental 

reformers  reached    England,   and  were  taken  up   with  the  1 
strongest  enthusiasm.      To  More  and  his  friends  the  work  of 

100  j 


•  -    .  • 


/ 


THE    RENAISSANCE    PERIOD 

Luther  was  hateful.  They  recognized  the  abuses  of  the 
Church,  and  worked  heart  and  soul  for  their  removal,  but  they 
wished  for  a  quiet  and  gradual  reform,  not  a  violent  overturning 
of  established  order.  They  foresaw  that  in  the  struggle  that 
must  result,  the  learning  they  loved  would  be  destroyed,  and 
the  country  would  sink  again  into  intellectual  torpor.  More 
suffered  death  upon  the  scaffold  for  his  opposition  to  the  new 
rehgion,  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  the  New  Ivcarning  in 
England  had  come  to  an  untimely  end. 

One  book,  and  that  a  great  one,  the  Protestant  Reformation 
gave  us — ^Tindale's  translation  of  the  Bible.  The  value  and 
influence  of  this — speaking  only  from  the  literary  standpoint — 
can  hardly  be  over-estimated.  "  It  gives  to  the  poor  and  the 
unlearned  opportunities  of  the  truest  culture  ;  it  forbids  the 
veriest  hind  who  never  left  his  village,  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
existence  of  other  countries  and  other  civilizations,  and  of  a 
great  past  stretching  back  to  the  furthest  limits  of  the  oldest 
civilizations  of  the  world."  ^ 

For  nearly  thirty  years  the  religious  strife  continued,  and 
absorbed  the  energies  of  the  nation.  Then  came  the  reign  of 
BHzabeth,  when  a  strong  settled  government  was  established, 
and  men  had  time  to  look  around  them  and  think  of  other  things 
besides  their  own  personal  safety.  It  needed  but  little  to  revive 
the  flame  that  Colet  and  More  and  their  friends  had  kindled. 
From  Italy,  where  all  this  time  the  great  movement  had  been 
going  on,  came  fresh  inspiration,  and  England  began  once  more 
to  attempt  literary  production.  For  the  first  twenty  years  of 
Elizabeth's  reign  the  efforts  made  were  chiefly  experimental 
and  imitative.  The  publication  of  Spenser's  Shepheard's 
Calendar  in  1579  marks  the  opening  of  the  great  period  of 
original  production.  Its  progress  may  be  traced  through  the 
great  books  that,  as  the  years  went  on,  made  the  reign  glorious. 

One  other  outstanding  feature  of  the  Renaissance  age  must 
be  mentioned — the  invention  of  printing.  Without  this  in- 
vention the  literary  treasures  which  the  age  produced  would 
have  been  known  only  to  a  comparatively  small  section  of  those 

1  Huxley. 

lOI 


:'.;;.4:;:'ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

who  were  prepared  'c6  receive  and  delight  in  them.  There  is  , 
perhaps  no  event  in  the  history  of  the  world  which  has  had  i 
more  important  and  far-reaching  consequences.  It  is  im-  i 
possible  to  say  with  certainty  with  whom  the  idea  of  printing  i 
originated.  Since  the  earliest  years  of  the  fifteenth  century  | 
workers  in  various  parts  of  Europe  had  been  striving  to  put 
into  practical  form  the  idea  which  had  either  been  conceived  ; 
independently  by  each,  or  had  been  gained  from  some  master  \ 
mind,  and  eagerly  passed  on  from  one  to  another.  Progress  I 
was  slow  and  halting.  Mechanical  difficulties  had  to  be  over-  ] 
come,  and  defects  remedied  after  careful  trial.  At  last,  about  \ 
the  middle  of  the  century,  a  book — the  Mazarine  Bible — was  ] 
printed  by  John  Gutenburg  at  Mainz,  and  soon  other  works  I 
followed.  After  this  the  knowledge  of  the  art  spread  rapidly,  i 
and  many  improvements  in  the  mechanism  of  the  first  rough  ! 
printing  presses  were  made.  In  1476  William  Caxton,  a  native  / 
of  Kent,  who  had  learnt  the  new  art  at  Cologne,  set  up  his  print-  ^ 
ing  press  in  the  Almonry,  Westminster.  The  first  book  issued  : 
from  this  press  was  The  Dictes  and  Sayings  of  the  Philosophers,  j 
and  others  followed  in  quick  succession.  The  works  of  Chaucer,  j 
Ivydgate,  and  Mandeville  were  among  the  earliest  of  these ;  j 
later  came  The  Golden  Legend  or  Lives  of  the  Saints,  Msop*s  \ 
Fables,  Le  Morte  d' Arthur,'^  and  part  of  Virgil's  Mneid.  Books  j 
for  which  there  was  a  large  demand,  such  as  psalters,  : 
missals,  works  on  etiquette  and  cookery  were  produced  in  i 
large  numbers.  Caxton  made  many  improvements  in  the 
machinery  with  which  he  worked,  and  in  the  methods  employed.  | 
After  his  death  in  149 1,  his  work  was  continued  by  his 
assistant,  Wynkyn  de  Worde.  ! 

1  I  haue  after  the  fymple  connynge  that  god  hath  fente  to  me  vnder  the  j 
f  auour  and  correflyon  of  al  noble  lordes  and  gentylmen  enpryfed  to  enprynte  • 
a  book  of  the  noble  hyftoryes  of  the  fayd  Kynge  Arthur  and  of  certeyn  of  1 
his  knyghtes  after  a  copye  vnto  me  delyuered  whyche  copye  Syr  Thomas  ^ 
Malorye  dyd  take  oute  of  certeyn  bookes  of  frenfflie  and  reduced  it  in  to  { 
Englifflie. — From  Caxton 's  Preface  to  Le  Morte  Darthur.  \ 


102 


CHAPTER  XII 
UTOPIA 

THE  first  book  that  the  Renaissance  gave  to  England 
was  the  Utopia  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  It  is  a  book  of 
ideals — ideals  of  statecraft,  of  political  and  social 
order,  of  religion,  of  education,  of  home  life,  of  dress — of  all 
things,  that  is  to  say,  that  go  to  make  up  a  perfect  state.  In 
its  general  plan  the  book  is  not  original ;  it  belongs  to  a  class 
of  which  examples  can  be  found  in  ancient  as  well  as  in  modern 
literature.  Plato  and  St.  Augustine  before  Sir  Thomas  More, 
and  Bacon,  Harrington,  I^ytton,  and  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  since  his 
time,  are  among  those  who  have  attempted  to  give  us  their 
ideal  of  a  perfect  State.  In  each  case  the  nature  of  the  dream 
country  is  decided,  first,  by  the  actual  existing  state  of  things 
in  the  world  around  him,  and  secondly,  by  the  writer's  own 
tastes  and  disposition.  He  starts  from  what  he  knows,  and 
the  shortcomings  of  the  actual  suggest  the  perfection  of  the 
ideal. 

The  special  interest  which  attaches  to  Sir  Thomas  More's 
Utopia  is  due  to  the  exceptional  nature  of  these  two  factors 
in  its  making.  It  was  produced  at  one  of  the  most  momen- 
tous and  wonderful  epochs  in  the  history  of  Europe,  when 
great  forces  were  at  work,  transforming  both  life  and  litera- 
ture ;  and  it  was  written  by  a  man  who  was  broadly  typical 
of  the  little  group  of  Englishmen  that  first  received  the 
inspiration  of  the  Renaissance  ;  who  was  both  courtier  and 
scholar,  and  who,  moreover,  possessed  those  rare  personal 
qualities  that  are  necessary  to  give  any  literary  work  an 
intimate  and  individual  charm. 

During  the  Middle  Ages  there  had  been  little  or  no  literature 

103 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

of  the  type  of  the  Utopia.  The  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman 
perhaps  comes  nearest  to  it ;  but  Langland  would  have 
scorned  what  he  would  have  considered  the  altogether  material 
ideal  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  The  whole  teaching  of  the  time 
discouraged  men  from  looking  for  any  great  joy  in  this  world, 
except  through  the  medium  of  religion.  They  were  taught 
to  fix  their  thoughts  upon  the  world  to  come,  to  make  that 
the  object  of  all  their  aspirations,  and  all  their  dreams;  to 
picture  an  ideal  state  on  earth  was  almost  impious.  But 
with  the  Renaissance  came  a  different  spirit — the  spirit  of 
the  ancient  Greeks.  The  Greeks  had  loved  beauty — natural, 
physical,  and  moral — and  the  men  of  Europe  learned  to  love 
beauty  too.  They  learned  to  delight  in  all  that  pleased  the 
senses  and  satisfied  the  emotions.  They  learned  that  this 
life  was  not  to  be  regarded  merely  as  a  passage  to  the  next, 
but  as  something  which  might  be,  in  itself,  good  and  lovely ; 
that  it  must  be  lived  beautifully,  as  well  as  worthily,  with  the 
strenuous  exercise  of  all  the  powers  of  body,  mind  and  spirit. 
This  sense  of  the  dignity  and  worth  of  human  life  is  to  be  seen 
in  every  page  of  the  Utopia.  The  book  does  not  disdain  the 
smallest  and  most  prosaic  details  which  can  add  to  the  daily 
happiness  of  the  ordinary  man. 

Yet  Utopia  has  some  qualities  which  show  that  the  spirit  of 
^  its  author  was  not  entirely  at  one  with  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Of 
the  turbulence  of  the  Renaissance,  its  restless  energy,  its 
impatience  of  restraint,  its  spirit  of  root-and-branch  reform, 
there  is  no  trace.  It  is  true  that  these  qualities  were  not  so 
noticeable  in  the  early  stages  of  the  movement  as  they  were 
when  it  had  reached  its  fullest  development  in  the  glorious 
days  of  Elizabeth.  But  they  were  gathering  the  strength 
which  was,  later,  to  overwhelm  More  and  men  like-minded 
with  himself. 

For  More,  though  he  was  a  reformer,  was  no  revolutionary. 
He  loved  order,  peace,  seemliness ;  he  hated  any  kind  of 
confusion,  strife,  or  squalor.  He  loved  the  graces  of  life,  he 
loved  mirth  and  laughter  and  music  ;  yet  he  had  the  temper 
of  the  ascetic,  and  in  his  early  days  had  seriously  purposed 
104 


UTOPIA 

entering  the  monastery  of  the  Carthusians.  "  Young  Master 
More  "  he  was  called  at  Oxford,  and  he  kept  the  name  for 
many  years,  a  tribute  to  the  perpetual  youth  which  seemed 
to  abide  with  him.  "  When,"  said  Erasmus,  who  first  met 
More  during  his  college  days,  "  did  Nature  mould  a  character 
more  gentle,  endearing  and  happy  than  Thomas  More's.  .  .  . 
All  things  of  this  world  amuse  him,  even  the  most  serious 
With  men  of  learning  he  is  ravished  by  their  wisdom,  with 
fools  he  is  delighted  at  their  folly.  .  .  .  From  childhood  he 
had  such  a  love  for  witty  jests,  that  he  seemed  to  have  been 
sent  into  the  world  for  the  sole  purpose  of  making  them." 
An  extract  from  the  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  by  his  son-in- 
law,  William  Roper,  shows  the  other  side  of  his  character. 
"  And  albeit  he  appeared  honourably  outwardly,  and  like  one  of 
his  calling,  yet  inwardly  he  no  such  vanities  esteeming,  secretly 
next  his  body  wore  a  shirt  of  hair.  .  .  .  He  used  also  some- 
times to  punish  his  body  with  whips,  the  cords  knotted,  which 
was  known  only  to  my  wife,  his  eldest  daughter,  whom  for  her 
secrecy  above  all  other  he  specially  trusted,  caused  her,  as 
need  required,  to  wash  the  same  shirt  of  hair." 

It  has  been  said  that  Sir  Thomas  More  realized  his  dream  of 
Utopia,  on  a  small  scale,  in  his  own  home.  Here  he  ruled  over 
a  busy,  peaceful,  happy  little  community,  to  each  member  of 
which  he  seemed  to  give  something  of  his  own  loving  and 
mirthful  spirit.  When,  in  1507,  he  married  his  first  wife,  Jane 
Colt,  of  New  Hall,  Essex,  he  lived  in  Bucklersbury  ;  later  he 
built  a  house  at  Chelsea,  where  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life.  In 
15 14  his  wife  died,  leaving  him  with  three  daughters — ^Margaret, 
Elizabeth,  and  Cicely — and  one  son,  John.  "  A  few  months 
after  his  wife's  death,"  Erasmus  tells  us,  *'  he  married  a  widow 
(Alice  Middleton),  who  might  take  care  of  his  children  (the 
eldest,  Margaret,  was  barely  five).  She  was  neither  young 
nor  fair,  as  he  would  say  laughingly,  but  an  active  and  vigilant 
housewife,  with  whom  he  lived  as  pleasantly  and  sweetly  as  if 
she  had  all  the  charms  of  youth.  You  will  scarcely  find  a 
husband  who,  by  authority  or  severity,  has  gained  such  ready 
compliance  as  More  by  pla3'^ful  flattery.     What,  indeed,  would 

los 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  not  obtain,  when  he  has  prevailed  on  a  woman  already 
getting  old,  and  by  no  means  of  a  pliable  disposition  and 
intent  on  domestic  affairs,  to  learn  to  play  the  harp,  the  lute, 
the  monochord  and  the  flute,  and,  by  the  appointment  of  her 
husband,  to  devote  to  this  task  a  fixed  time  every  day." 

The  house  at  Chelsea  was  a  modest,  unimposing  building, 
with  a  pleasant  garden  leading  down  to  the  river.  It  was 
situated  close  to  the  place  where  the  statue  of  Thomas  Carlyle 
now  stands.  Inside,  it  was  comfortable,  even  beautiful,  and 
the  mode  of  living,  though  there  was  no  display,  was  dignified 
and  liberal.  The  most  generous  hospitality  was  practised. 
More  was  not  a  rich  man,  but  he  was  a  great  and  successful 
lawyer,  who  had  built  up  for  himself  a  lucrative  private 
practice.  I^ater,  though  much  against  his  will,  he  occupied 
high  offices  in  the  State.  *'  He  tried  as  hard,"  his  son-in-law 
tells  us,  "  to  keep  out  of  Court  as  most  men  try  to  get  into  it." 
King  Henry  delighted  in  his  company,  and  would  have  him 
always  within  call.  "  When  Sir  Thomas  More  perceived  so 
much  in  his  talk  to  dehght,  that  he  could  not  once  in  a  month 
get  leave  to  go  home  to  his  wife  and  children  (whose  company 
he  most  desired)  and  to  be  absent  from  the  Court  two  days 
together,  but  that  he  should  be  thither  sent  for  again,  he, 
much  misliking  this  restraint  of  liberty,  began  thereupon 
somewhat  to  dissemble  his  nature,  and  so  by  little  and  little 
from  his  former  mirth  to  disuse  himself  so  that  he  was  of  them 
from  thenceforth  no  more  so  ordinarily  sent  for."  Only  by 
this  means  could  More  find  time  to  "  commune  with  his  wife, 
chat  with  his  children,  and  talk  with  his  servants  "  ;  which 
things,  he  says,  he  "  reckons  and  accounts  among  business, 
for  as  much  as  they  must  of  necessity  be  done,  unless  a  man 
will  be  a  stranger  in  his  own  house." 

*'  In  that  house,"  wrote  Erasmus,  "  you  will  find  no  one 
idle,  no  one  busied  in  feminine  trifles.  Titus  lyivius  is  in  their 
hands.  They  have  advanced  so  far  that  they  can  read  such 
authors  and  understand  them  without  a  translation,  unless 
there  occurs  some  such  word  as  would  perhaps  perplex  myself. 
His  wife,  who  excels  in  good  sense  and  experience  rather  than 
io6 


UTOPIA 

in  learning,  governs  the  little  company  with  wonderful  tact, 
assigning  to  each  a  task,  and  requiring  its  performance.  His 
whole  house  breathes  happiness,  and  no  one  enters  it  who  is 
not  the  better  for  the  visit." 

Many  visitors  came  to  the  pleasant  house  by  the  riverside, 
among  them  men  whose  names  stand  highest  among  the 
scholars  of  the  day.  There  was  the  gentle  Dean  Colet,  full  of 
enthusiasm  for  the  new  school  he  had  lately  established  at  St. 
Paul's.  The  children  of  the  house  gathered  round  him  to  hear 
stories  of  the  boys  who  were  being  brought  up  at  this  school 
under  the  rule  of  kindness  with  which  the  Dean  had  replaced 
the  harsh  almost  barbarous  methods  common  in  that  age. 
Such  a  system  was  strange  to  most  of  the  men  and  women  of 
the  day,  but  it  was  not  strange  to  the  children  of  Sir  Thomas 
More.  The  only  birch  in  the  house  at  Chelsea  was  *  a  bundle 
of  peacock's  feathers,'  and  for  every  stripe  their  father  had 
given  them,  they  had  received  from  him  *  a  hundred  kisses.* 
He  and  the  good  Dean  were  at  one  in  their  ideas  concerning 
the  bringing-up  of  children. 

William  Lilly,  the  grammarian,  first  head  master  of  the 
St.  Paul's  School,  came  too,  and  lyinacre,  the  King's  physician, 
and  Grocyn,  the  great  Oxford  teacher.  All  these  had  been 
friends  of  Sir  Thomas  More  since  his  boyish  days.  Erasmus, 
the  great  Greek  scholar,  each  time  he  came  to  England,  spent 
many  weeks  with  the  friend  he  had  known  and  loved  so  well  at 
Oxford.  "  Erasmus,  my  darling,"  More  calls  him  in  his 
letters,  and  Erasmus  does  not  come  behind  in  expressions  of 
affection,  "  If  he  bade  me  to  dance  on  the  tight-rope  I  should 
obey  without  a  murmur."  It  is  to  Erasmus  that  we  owe  a 
great  part  of  our  knowledge  of  the  Chelsea  household.  The 
children  wrote  to  him  in  Latin,  telling  him  all  about  the  birds, 
monkeys,  foxes,  ferrets,  weasels,  and  other  animals  that  they 
kept  in  the  house  as  pets  ;  about  the  lessons  they  had  from  their 
tutor,  or,  best  of  all,  from  their  adored  father,  who  loved  to 
teach  them  when  he  could  spare  the  time  from  his  other  duties  ; 
about  the  fool,  Henry  Paterson,  their  father's  humble  and 
devoted  servant,  whose  jokes  sometimes  amused  and  some- 

107 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

times  vexed  them ;  and  all  the  little  matters  that  made  up 
their  busy,  happy  lives. 

It  is  said  that  Holbein,  the  great  Dutch  painter,  spent  a  long 
period  at  More's  house  when  he  was  driven  out  of  Switzerland, 
and  that  it  is  to  this  visit  we  owe  the  portrait  group  which 
has  made  us  familiar  with  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
members  of  the  household.  Especially  valuable  is  the  present- 
ment it  gives  of  More  himself.  "  The  keen,  irregular  face,  the 
grey,  restless  eye,  the  thin  mobile  lips,  the  tumbled  brown 
hair,  the  careless  gait  and  dress,  as  they  remain  stamped  on  the 
canvas  of  Holbein,  picture  the  inner  soul  of  the  man,  his 
vivacity,  his  restless,  all-devouring  intellect,  his  keen  and 
even  reckless  wit,  the  kindly,  half-sad  humour  that  drew  its 
strange  veil  of  laughter  and  tears  over  the  deep,  tender 
reverence  of  the  soul  within." 

lyast  in  this  list  of  visitors  comes  King  Henry  VIII  himself. 
"  For  the  pleasure  he  took  in  his  company,  would  his  Grace 
suddenly  sometimes  come  home  to  his  house  at  Chelsea  to  be 
merry  with  him,  whither  on  a  time  unlooked  for  he  came  to 
dinner,  and  after  dinner  in  a  fair  garden  of  his,  walked  with 
him  by  the  space  of  an  hour,  holding  his  arm  about  his  neck." 

As  time  went  on  the  little  society  in  the  house  at  Chelsea  in- 
creased in  numbers.  "  There  he  lives,"  wrote  Erasmus,  in  a 
letter  of  a  later  date  than  that  already  quoted,  "  surrounded 
by  his  numerous  family,  including  his  wife,  his  son  and  his 
son's  wife,  his  three  daughters  and  their  husbands,  with 
eleven  grandchildren.  There  is  not  any  man  living  so  affec- 
tionate to  his  children  as  he,  and  he  loveth  his  old  wife  as  if 
she  were  a  girl  of  fifteen.  Such  is  the  excellence  of  his  disposi- 
tion that  whatever  happeneth  that  could  not  be  helped,  he  is 
as  cheerful  and  as  well  pleased  as  though  the  best  thing  possible 
had  been  done.  In  More's  house  you  would  say  that  Plato's 
academy  was  revived  again,  only  whereas  in  the  academy  the 
discussion  turned  upon  geometry  and  the  power  of  numbers, 
the  house  at  Chelsea  is  a  veritable  school  of  Christian  religion. 
In  it  is  none,  man  or  woman,  but  readeth  or  studieth  the 
liberal  arts,  yet  is  their  chief  care  piety.  There  is  never  any 
1 08 


UTOPIA 

seen  idle  ;  the  head  of  the  house  governs  it,  not  by  a  lofty 
carriage  and  oft  rebukes,  but  by  gentleness  and  amiable 
manners.  Every  member  is  busy  in  his  place  performing  his 
duty  with  alacrity,  nor  is  sober  mirth  wanting." 

Such  was  the  small  kingdom  of  Utopia  which  Sir  Thomas 
More  established  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  But  he  was  a 
statesman  and  a  patriot  as  well  as  a  loving  father  and  a  faith- 
ful friend.  He  looked  outside  the  walls  of  his  home,  and  saw 
the  ills  under  which  his  country  was  suffering.  He  longed  for 
the  time  when  men  should  cease  to  be  swayed  by  their  passions, 
when  the  weaker  should  no  longer  be  pitilessly  trodden  under 
foot  in  the  greedy  rush  for  the  riches  which,  after  all,  could 
not  give  happiness.  He  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  the  New 
Learning,  a  fervent  behever  in  the  innate  dignity  and  worth  of 
man's  nature  if  only  it  were  allowed  to  develop  itself  as  God 
intended.  Reason,  culture,  gentleness,  persuasion,  toleration 
of  other  men's  opinions  and  moderation  in  pushing  one's  own 
— these  were  the  means,  as  he  beheved,  by  which  the  new  Golden 
Age  was  to  be  brought  to  the  earth.  It  was  because  he  held 
these  opinions  that  he  so  bitterly  opposed  the  violence  of  the 
Protestant  reforming  party,  who,  he  thought  were  destroying 
all  the  work  that  Colet  and  his  friends  had  done,  by  introducing 
strife  and  dissension  into  religion,  and  bringing  men's  minds 
into  a  new  bondage  when  they  had  with  pains  escaped  from 
the  old. 

Had  Sir  Thomas  More  lived  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  we 
can  imagine  with  what  delight  he  would  have  listened  to  the 
stories  of  the  voyagers  about  the  new  lands  over  the  sea,  and 
how  his  zeal  for  colonizing  would  have  outrun  that  of  Raleigh 
himself.  In  a  new  land  he  would  have  been  able  to  give 
practical  expression  to  the  ideas  and  theories  that  he  had 
thought  over  for  so  many  years.  He  might  have  been  the 
founder  of  a  stable,  flourishing  colony ;  but  then  he  would 
probably  never  have  written  the  Utopia,  to  be  the  dehght  and 
inspiration  of  the  generations  which  followed  him. 

The  way  in  which  he  came  to  write  the  book  was,  as  he  tells 
it,  thus :    "  The  most  victorious  and  triumphant  King  of 

109 


ENGLISH     LITERATURE 

England,  Henry  the  Eighth  of  that  name,  .  .  .  had  of  late 
in  controversy  with  Charles,  the  right  high  and  mighty  King  of 
Castile,  weighty  matters  and  of  great  importance.  For  the 
debatement  and  final  determination  whereof,  the  King's 
Majesty  sent  me  ambassador  into  Flanders.  .  .  .  Whiles  I 
was  there  abiding  "  (at  Antwerp)  "  did  visit  me  one  Peter 
Giles,  a  man  there  in  his  country  of  honest  reputation.  .  .  . 
Upon  a  certain  day  when  I  had  heard  the  divine  service  in  our 
I^ady's  Church,  .  .  .  and  was  ready  to  go  home  to  my  lodging, 
I  chanced  to  espy  this  aforesaid  Peter  talking  with  a  certain 
stranger,  a  man  well  stricken  in  age,  with  a  black  sunburned 
face,  a  long  beard,  and  a  cloak  cast  homely  about  his  shoulders, 
whom  by  his  favour  and  apparel,  forthwith  I  judged  to  be  a 
mariner."  This  man  Peter  Giles  introduced  as  Ralph  Hyth- 
loday,  a  learned  man,  who  had  voyaged  in  the  western  seas,  and 
had  seen  many  strange  lands.  The  three  adjourned  to  More's 
lodging,  and  there,  in  the  garden  "  upon  a  bench  covered  with 
green  turf  "  they  sat  down  talking  together.  The  stranger 
willingly  answered  the  questions  of  the  other  two  concerning 
his  travels.  "  But  as  for  monsters,"  says  Sir  Thomas  More, 
with  an  obvious  reference  to  Sir  John  Mandeville's  Travels, 
and  similar  books,  "  because  they  be  no  news,  of  them  we  were 
nothing  inquisitive.  For  nothing  is  more  easy  to  be  found  then 
be  barking  Scyllas,  ravening  Celenos,  and  I^oestrygonians 
devourers  of  people,  and  such  like  great  and  incredible  monsters. 
But  to  find  Citizens  ruled  by  good  and  wholesome  laws,  that  is 
an  exceeding  rare  and  hard  thing."  Such  a  state  Hythloday 
had  seen  in  the  island  of  Utopia. 

The  description  of  this  island,  and  of  its  chief  city,  Amaurote, 
shows  that  More  had  in  his  mind  all  the  time  he  was  writing 
his  own  well-known  and  dearly  loved  lyOndon.  But  when 
we  come  to  his  description  of  the  streets  of  Utopia,  "  very 
commodious  and  handsome  "  and  twenty  feet  broad,  where 
stand  *'  fair  and  gorgeous  houses  "  with  large  gardens  and 
vineyards,  and  "  all  manner  of  fruit,  herbs  and  flowers," 
it  is  clear  that  he  is  no  longer  drawing  a  picture  of  the  actual 
lyondon  of  his  time.  There  were,  it  is  true,  a  few  "  fair  and 
no 


Sir  Thomas  More 

After  Holbein 
Photo.  W.  A.  Hansen  ft  Co. 


m  UTOPIA 

gorgeous  houses "  belonging  to  noblemen,  built  along  the 
Strand  and  in  the  other  chief  thoroughfares  ;  but  for  the 
most  part  I^ondon  was  made  up  of  "  divers  small  alleys  " 
separated  by  ditches  into  which  "  much  filth  "  was  thrown,  and 
"  both  sides  built  up  with  small  tenements."  In  Holland 
More  may  have  seen  the  broad  streets  and  well-built  houses 
which  he  transferred  to  his  Utopia,  but  not  in  his  own  country. 
In  Utopia  there  are  fifty-four  "  large  and  fair  cities  "  built 
after  this  fashion,  each  being  at  least  twenty-four  miles  distant 
from  the  next.  In  the  country  districts  are  farms,  at  each  of 
which  forty  persons,  men  and  women,  with  two  bondmen, 
live.  "  Out  of  every  one  of  these  families  or  farms  cometh 
every  year,  into  the  city  twenty  persons,  which  have  con- 
tinued two  years  before  in  the  country.  In  their  place  so 
many  fresh  be  sent  thither  out  of  the  city,  who,  of  them  that 
have  been  there  a  year  already,  and  be  therefore  expert  and 
cunning  in  husbandry,  shall  be  instructed  and  taught.  And 
they  the  next  year  shall  teach  other."  The  Utopians  are 
governed  by  magistrates  elected  by  the  people,  and  these 
magistrates  elect  the  prince.  "  The  prince's  office  continueth 
all  his  hfetime,  unless  he  be  deposed  or  put  down  for  suspicion 
of  tyranny."  The  day  is  so  divided  that  all  may  have  a  due 
share  of  labour  and  of  rest.  "  For  they  dividing  the  day  and 
the  night  into  twenty-four  just  hours,  appoint  and  assign  only 
six  of  these  hours  to  work  before  noon,  upon  the  which  they 
go  straight  to  dinner  ;  and  after  dinner  when  they  have  rested 
two  hours,  then  they  work  three  hours  and  upon  that  they  go  to 
supper.  About  eight  of  the  clock  in  the  evening,  they  go  to 
bed  :  eight  hours  they  give  to  sleep.  All  the  void  time  that 
is  between  the  hours  of  work,  sleep  and  meat,  that  they  be 
suffered  to  bestow,  every  man  as  he  liketh  best  himself."  "  For 
their  garments  which  throughout  all  the  island  be  of  one 
fashion  (saving  that  there  is  a  difference  between  the  man's 
garment  and  the  woman's,  betw^een  the  married  and  the  un- 
married) and  this  one  continueth  for  evermore  unchanged, 
seemly  and  comely  to  the  eye,  no  let  to  the  moving  and  wielding 
of  the  body,  also  fit  both  for  winter  and  summer  :   as  for  these 

III 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  j 

garments  (I  say)  every  family  maketh  their  own."  "  But  now  j 
again  to  the  conversation  of  the  citizens  among  themselves.  ; 
The  eldest  ruleth  the  family.  The  wives  be  ministers  to  their  i 
husbands,  the  children  to  their  parents,  and  to  be  short  the  ; 
younger  to  their  elders.  Every  city  is  divided  into  four  equal  ' 
parts,  or  quarters.  In  the  midst  of  every  quarter  there  is  a 
market  place  of  all  manner  of  things.  Thither  the  works  of  ' 
every  family  be  brought  into  certain  houses.  And  every  kind  \ 
of  thing  is  laid  up  several  in  barns  or  store  houses.  From  i 
thence  the  father  of  every  family  fetcheth  whatsoever  he  and  ' 
his  have  need  of,  and  carrieth  it  away  with  him  without  money,  ; 
without  exchange,  without  gage,  pawn  or  pledge.  For  why 
should  anything  be  denied  unto  him  ?  Seeing  there  is  j 
abundance  of  all  things,  and  that  it  is  not  to  be  feared  lest  j 
any  man  will  ask  more  than  he  needeth."  And,  to  conclude  j 
this  slight  sketch  of  the  Utopians  and  their  ways  :  "  They  ; 
define  virtue  to  be  life  ordered  according  to  nature,  and  that  ■ 
we  be  hereunto  ordained  by  God." 

The  manuscript  of  the  Utopia  was  passed  about  among  : 
More's  friends,  and  received  great  praise.  In  15 16  it  was  j 
printed,  and  thus  reached  a  wider  circle,  and  gained  increased  I 
popularity.  It  is  said  that  some  readers  were  so  struck  by  the  i 
real  and  lifeHke  touches  that  More  gave  to  his  narrative  that  \ 
they  could  not  believe  his  land  of  *  Nowhere  '  to  be  wholly  1 
imaginary,  and  talked  seriously  of  chartering  ships  and  sending  i 
out  missionaries  to  convert  the  people  to  their  own  religious  | 
views.  1 

While  More  was  writing  his  Utopia  the  storm  that  was  to  ^ 
destroy  him  was  gathering.  In  15 17  came  I^uther's  open  ^ 
defiance  of  the  Pope,  and  soon  the  strife  between  Protestant  j 
and  Catholic  was  raging  fiercely  throughout  Northern  Europe.  : 
In  England,  it  bore  down  as  the  lovers  of  the  New  I^earning  had  i 
foreseen  that  it  would  do,  all  interest  in  intellectual  pursuits.  \ 
More  quickly  became  involved  in  the  struggle.  He  held  stead-  \ 
f  astly  to  the  religious  principles  that  had  guided  all  his  previous 
life,  and  in  1535,  for  his  refusal  to  acknowledge  the  Act  of  ] 
Supremacy,  he  suffered  death  upon  the  scaffold.  \ 

112  ^ 


\W  UTOPIA 

No  English  version  of  the  Utopia  was  pubHshed  during 
More's  lifetime.  In  15 51  appeared  "  A  fruitful  and  pleasaunte 
worke  of  the  beste  state  of  a  publyke  weale,  and  of  the  newe 
yle  called  Utopia  :  written  in  I^atine  by  Syr  Thomas  More 
knyght,  and  translated  into  Englyshe  by  Ralphe  Robynson 
Citiyein  and  Goldsmythe  of  I^ondon,  at  the  procurement,  and 
earnest  request  of  George  Tadlowe  Citiyein  and  Haberdassher 
of  the  same  Citie."  This  translation,  written  as  it  is  in  the 
language  of  More's  own  day,  has  held  the  first  place  against 
several  others  of  a  later  date,  and  from  it  the  quotations  given 
in  this  chapter  are  taken. 


113 


\ 


CHAPTER  XIII 
TINDALE'S    BIBLE 

WHEN  Henry  VIII  came  to  the  throne  in  1509  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  years  had  passed  since 
the  death  of  Wiclif,  and  I^ollardry  had  apparently 
long  ago  been  crushed.     Yet  it  had  never  really  died  out. 
In  each    generation  it  had  numbered  its  scanty    band  of 
followers,  whose  desire  for  a  purer  form  of  religion  had  been 
strong  enough  to  make  them  brave  the  penalties  for  heresy 
which  the  bishops  rigorously   enforced.     Among   this   Httle 
company  was  William  Tindale,  who  at  the  time  of  which  we 
are  speaking,  was  a  student  at  the  University  of  Oxford. 
From  here,   in   1515,   he  passed   to   Cambridge,   where  the 
memory  of  the  great  scholar  Erasmus,  and  of  his  Greek  lectures, 
was  still  fresh  in  all  men's  minds.     Tindale,  we  know,  read 
and  enjoyed  Erasmus'  books,  and  doubtless  gained  from  them 
some  of  the  inspiration  which  urged  him  toward  his  great 
work.     Erasmus,    like    Sir    Thomas    More,    strongly    disap- 
proved of  the  measures  taken  by  the  more  violent  of  the 
Protestant  reformers,  who,  in  a  few  years  were  to  set  Europe 
in  turmoil ;  but  he  heartily  sympathized  with  those  who  were 
working   at   the   translation   of   the   Scriptures.     *'  I   totally 
dissent,"  he  says,  '*  from  those  who  are  unwilling  that  the 
sacred  Scriptures  translated  into  the  vulgar  tongue  should  be 
read  by  private  individuals.     The  mysteries  of  kings  it  were 
perhaps  better  to  conceal,  but  Christ  wishes  his  mysteries 
to  be  published  as  widely  as  possible.     I  would  wish  even  all 
women  to  read  the  Gospel  and  St.  Paul's  Epistles,  and  I  wish 
they  were  translated  into  all  languages  of  all  people,  that  they 
might  be  read  and  known,  not  merely  by  the  Scotch  and 
114 


P  TINDALE'S   BIBLE 

Irish,  but  even  by  the  Turks  and  Saracens.  I  wish  that  the 
husbandman  would  sing  parts  of  them  at  his  plough,  that  the 
weaver  may  warble  them  at  his  shuttle,  that  the  traveller  may 
with  their  narratives  beguile  the  weariness  of  the  way." 

It  is  impossible  not  to  recognize  the  influence  of  these  words 
in  Tindale's  own  memorable  utterance  concerning  his  transla- 
tion of  the  Bible.  "  If  God  spare  my  life,  ere  many  years  I 
will  cause  the  boy  that  driveth  the  plow  to  know  more  of  the 
Scriptures  than  you  (a  theologian)  do."  To  this  purpose  he 
devoted  his  life,  and  the  great  learning  and  skill  in  languages 
which  he  had  industriously  acquired.  When  he  left  the 
University  he  settled  down  to  work  in  his  native  county  of 
Gloucestershire,  but  here  he  met  with  many  hindrances  and 
much  opposition  from  the  unlearned  clergy  around.  He 
resolved  to  come  to  London,  and  applied  to  the  Bishop  of 
London,  whom  Erasmus  "  praiseth  exceedingly  for  his  great 
learning,"  for  a  place  in  his  household.  But  the  Bishop, 
after  much  delay,  answered  that  "  his  house  was  full,  he  had 
more  than  he  could  well  find."  "  And  so,"  says  Tindale,  "  in 
London  I  abode  almost  one  year,  .  .  .  and  understood  at  the 
last  not  only  that  there  was  no  room  in  my  Lord  of  London's 
palace  to  translate  the  New  Testament,  but  also  that  there 
was  no  place  to  do  it  in  all  England." 

In  May  1524  Tindale  left  England,  to  suffer  during  long 
years,  "  poverty,  exile,  bitter  absence  from  friends,  hunger  and 
thirst  and  cold,  great  dangers  and  innumerable  other  hard  and 
sharp  fightings."  He  went  first  to  Wittenberg,  then  the  Holy 
City  of  the  reformers,  for  there  Luther  had  struck  the  first 
blow  for  Protestant  truth.  Then  he  settled  at  Hamburg, 
where  he  proceeded  rapidly  with  his  translation.  Some  help 
perhaps  he  gained  from  the  Wicliifite  versions,  but  his  main 
dependence  was  upon  the  original  Greek  text,  as  edited  by 
Erasmus.  Soon  the  Gospels  and  Epistles  were  ready  for  the 
printer,  and  Tindale  went  on  to  Cologne,  where  the  printing 
was  begun.  Sympathizers  gathered  round  him,  followers  of 
Luther,  and  scholars  from  Cambridge.  A  busy  little  company 
was  engaged  in  the  great  work  of  preparing  and  printing  the 

IIS 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

New  Testament,  as  well  as  various  tracts  by  Wiclif  and  lyUther. 
Quietly  as  they  proceeded,  the  attention  of  neighbouring 
Catholics  was  attracted  towards  them,  and  one  of  these  ob- 
tained an  order  from  the  Senate  of  Cologne,  forbidding  the 
printing  of  heretical  works.  Tindale  and  his  friends  escaped 
to  Worms,  taking  the  precious  sheets  with  them,  and  again 
the  work  went  on,  until  at  last,  by  the  end  of  1525  the  New 
Testament  was  finished.  Many  copies  were  smuggled  over 
to  England,  and  were  spread  through  the  country  by  the  help 
of  the  rapidly  growing  body  of  Protestants  there.  In  1526 
the  King  was  warned  of  what  was  being  done,  and  the  strictest 
precautions  were  taken  against  the  introduction  of  any  more 
copies.  But  in  spite  of  this,  the  work  went  on  "  The 
Council  threatened,  the  bishops  anathematized.  They  opened 
subscriptions  to  buy  up  the  hated  and  dreaded  volumes.  They 
burnt  them  pubHcly  in  St.  Paul's.  The  whip,  the  gaol,  the 
stake  did  their  worst ;  and  their  worst  was  nothing." 

Tindale' s  courage  and  resolution  remained  unshaken.  "  In 
burning  the  New  Testament  they  did  none  other  thing  than 
that  I  looked  for  ;  no  more  shall  they  do  if  they  burn  me  also, 
if  it  be  God's  will  it  shall  be  so."  Sir  Thomas  More  was  one 
of  the  foremost  in  denouncing  the  work.  It  was,  he  said, 
ignorant,  dishonest  and  heretical — so  far  did  prejudice  in- 
fluence the  judgment  of  a  man  usually  as  fair-minded  as  he 
was  learned,  and  who  admitted  that  Tindale  *'  before  he  fell 
into  his  I^utheran  frenzies  was  full  prettily  learned." 

Sy  1530,  six  editions,  making  probably  fifteen  thousand 
copies,  had  been  distributed.  Of  the  first  edition  only  a 
fragment  of  one  copy  remains,  and  that  was  discovered 
accidentally  in  1836,  when  a  lyondon  bookseller  found  the  first 
twenty  chapters  of  St.  Matthew's  Gospel  bound  up  with  a 
tract.  Of  the  second  edition  we  have  one  copy  ;  of  the  others 
two  or  three. 

In  1527  Tindale  retired  to  Marburg,  and  entered  with 
fervour  into  the  religious  controversies  of  the  day.  But  this 
did  not  hinder  him  from  proceeding  with  his  great  work.  In 
1530  his  translation  of  the  Pentateuch,  from  the  original 
116 


\ 


Hebrew,  was  printed  at  Marburg.  The  only  perfect  copy  of 
this  edition  is  in  the  British  Museum.  In  153 1  Tindale  was  at 
Antwerp,  and  here  he  translated  Joshua,  Kings,  and  Chronicles, 
During  these  years  his  life  was  in  constant  danger.  The 
English  king  had  demanded  his  surrender,  and  he  had  many 
bitter  private  enemies  who  were  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to 
betray  him.  The  sword  hung  above  his  head,  and  in  calmness 
he  waited  for  it  to  fall.  Each  day  brought  the  stroke  nearer, 
and  each  day  found  him  serenely  at  work,  with  such  complete 
detachment  from  personal  fears  as  witnessed  to  his  large  and 
lofty  courage. 

In  1535  the  sword  fell.  Tindale  was  living  at  the  house  of 
an  English  merchant  in  Antwerp,  and  while  there  he  was  com- 
paratively safe.  But  one  of  those  who  had  long  been  plotting 
his  destruction — a  fanatical  Papist,  to  whom  his  works  were 
as  the  works  of  Antichrist — managed  to  decoy  him  outside 
the  boundaries  of  the  town,  and  deliver  him  into  the  hands 
of  the  Emperor's  agents.  He  was  imprisoned  in  the  castle  of 
Velvorde.  His  friends  did  ever3rthing  that  could  be  done  to 
help  him,  but  without  avail.  He  was  charged  with  heresy, 
tried,  condemned,  and  sentenced  to  death.  On  October  6 
the  sentence  was  carried  out.  Tindale  was  strangled,  and  his 
body  burnt  at  the  stake.  The  life  that  had  been  so  wholly 
devoted  to  the  service  of  God  and  man  was  at  an  end. 

Before  Tindale's  death  things  had  changed  in  England. 
The  Reformation  had  become  an  accomplished  fact,  and  in 
1533  a  decree  was  issued  that  the  Bible  should  be  published 
in  the  native  tongue.  Miles  Cover  dale,  a  friend  of  Cranmer's, 
was  employed  to  collect  and  revise  the  translations  of  Tindale, 
and  the  Bible  which  he  edited  appeared  in  1535,  "  Set  forth 
with  the  Kynge's  most  gracious  license." 

So  Tindale's  life-work  was  accomplished,  and  the  Bible  which 
was  the  gift  he  gave  to  his  countrymen,  and  paid  for  with  his 
own  life,  was  brought,  as  he  had  dreamed  that  it  should  be, 
within  the  reach  of  the  humblest  Enghshman.  The  tre- 
mendous influence  which  his  translation  has  had  upon  the 
country  is  seen  both  in  the  history  of  the  nation  and  the  history 

117 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

of  its  literature.  Early  in  the  seventeenth  century  came  the 
revision  which  gave  us  our  Authorized  Version.  But  this  is 
substantially  the  version  of  Tindale,  with  a  few  modifications 
and  corrections,  such  as  he  himself  had  foreseen  might  be 
necessary.  "  The  peculiar  genius,  if  such  a  word  may  be  per- 
mitted,'' says  Mr.  Froude,  "  that  breathes  through  it  [the 
Authorized  Version] — the  mingled  tenderness  and  majesty — 
the  Saxon  simplicity — the  preternatural  grandeur — unequalled, 
unapproached  in  the  attempted  improvements  of  modern 
scholars — all  are  here,  and  bear  the  impress  of  the  mind  of  one 
man — ^WilHam  Tindale." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  give  here  any  extracts  from  Tindale's 

translation.    Its  words  are  familiar  to  every  one  throughout 

the  land.     The  man  who  in  his  humility  described  himself  as 

"  evil-favoured  in  this  world,  and  without  grace  in  the  sight 

of  men,  speechless  and  rude,  dull  and  slow-witted,"  has  been 

I  during  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  honoured  by  his  country- 

I  men  for  his  part  in  giving  them  the  Book  which  is  at  once  the 

I  purest  version  of  the  truths  of  their  religion  and  their  greatest 

I  English  classic. 


Ii8 


CHAPTER  XIV 
EUPHUES:    THE   ANATOMIE   OF   WIT 

IT  is,  in  spite  of  occasional  tediousness  and  pedantry,  as 
brave,  righteous,  and  pious  a  book  as  a  man  need  look 
into;  and  I  wish  for  no  better  proof  of  the  nobleness 
and  virtue  of  the  Elizabethan  age  than  the  fact  that  Euphues 
and  the  Arcadia  were  the  two  popular  romances  of  the  day. 
.  .  .  Let  those  who  have  not  read  Euphues  believe  that  if  they 
could  train  a  son  after  the  pattern  of  his  Ephoebus  to  the  great 
saving  of  their  own  money  and  his  virtue,  all  fathers,  even 
in  these  money-making  days,  would  rise  up  and  call  them 
blessed." 

These  are  the  words  of  Charles  Kingsley  concerning  John 
Lyly's  book  Euphues,  and  it  is  well  to  remember  them,  because 
as  a  rule,  the  subject-matter  of  the  book  is  disregarded,  and 
attention  given  only  to  the  curious  style  in  which  it  is  written. 
The  style,  indeed,  constitutes  the  book's  chief  claim  to  be 
considered  as  one  of  the  memorable  works  of  the  EHzabethan 
era ;  but  the  matter  also  is,  as  Kingsley  says,  worthy  of 
attention. 

The  author  of  Euphues  came  to  the  court  of  EUzabeth  from 
the  University  of  Oxford  in  1575,  when  he  was  about  twenty- 
two  years  old.  His  ancestry  was  not  undistinguished.  He 
was  born,  he  tells  us,  in  "  the  wyld  of  Kent,  of  honest  parents." 
His  grandfather  was  William  Lyly,  the  grammarian,  the  friend 
of  More,  and  of  Colet,  the  first  headmaster  of  St.  Paul's  School. 
Little  of  this  great  man's  love  of  learning  seems  to  have  passed 
to  his  grandson.  John  Lyly  left  the  University  with  no  great 
reputation  as  a  scholar  ;  he  was,  his  biographer  tells  us, 
"  always  averse  to  the  crabbed  studies  of  logic  and  philosophic. 

119 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

.  .  .  His  genie  being  naturally  bent  on  the  pleasant  paths  of 
poetry,  he  did,  in  a  manner,  neglect  academical  studies." 
Some  of  his  critics  would  have  us  believe  that  he  did  far  worse 
than  merely  neglect  his  studies.  "  He  spent  his  time,"  say^ 
Gabriel  Harvey,  the  friend  of  Spenser,  "  gaming,  fooling  and 
knaving,"  and  was  "  himself  a  mad  lad  as  ever  twang'd,  nfever 
troubled  with  any  substance  of  wit  or  circumstance  of  honestie." 
But  Gabriel  Harvey  was  a  strict  and  hostile  critic,  who  had  no 
sympathy  with  the  high  spirits  and  superabundant  life  so 
characteristic  of  the  younger  writers  of  his  day.  It  seems 
probable  that  Lyly's  sins,  thus  sternly  denounced,  were  only 
the  excesses  of  a  youth  intoxicated,  as  nearly  all  the  Eliza- 
bethan youths  were  intoxicated,  with  the  sense  of  freedom  and 
opportunity  which  came  with  that  glorious  and  adventurous 
age.  lyyly  gained  among  the  brilliant  group  of  students 
beginning  to  gather  at  both  Universities  (most  of  whom  shared 
his  aversion  to  "  logic  and  philosophic  ")  a  great  reputation  as 
a  wit,  and  this  reputation  seems  to  have  been  his  great  asset 
when  he  came  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune. 

The  easiest  road  to  fortune  in  those  days  was  the  patronage 
of  some  great  man.  Lyly  applied  to  I^ord  Burleigh,  and  was 
given  a  post,  the  nature  of  which  is  not  certain.  But  it  served 
to  admit  him  to  the  Court  of  EHzabeth,  to  which  all  who 
desired  either  to  push  their  fortunes  or  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
intellectual  intercourse  must  come.  The  Court  was  the  centre 
of  influence,  and  the  centre  of  taste.  "  It  was  not  only  a 
royal  court ;  it  was  also  a  great  club." 

Among  all  the  proud,  high-born  nobles  who  flocked  to  this 
splendid  centre  of  a  great  kingdom,  the  young,  unnoted  Oxford 
scholar  daily  moved.  Sidney  was  there,  just  returned  from 
his  Continental  tour,  the  darling  of  the  whole  Court,  the 
brightest  jewel  in  Elizabeth's  crown.  His  sister,  Mary  Sidney, 
herself  a  poet  and  a  friend  of  poets,  was  there,  too,  and  the  great 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  her  affianced  husband.  Walter  Raleigh, 
the  young,  unknown  Devonshire  squire,  had  lately  by  means  of 
readiness,  gallantry  and  a  handsome  face,  gained  for  himself  a 
place  in  Elizabeth's  favour,  which  made  him  a  dangerous  rival 
120 


1EUPHUES 
the  brilliant  Essex,  and  even  of  the  magnificent  lyeicester. 
eat  statesmen  like  Cecil,  Walsingham  and  Sir  Nicholas 
.con,  looked  gravely  on  at  the  pageants  and  shows  with 
which  the  great  queen  loved  to  be  entertained  ;  and  their 
wives  and  daughters,  forsaking  spacious  and  beautiful  country 
houses,  hurried  up  to  town,  to  cramp  themselves  and  their 
belongings  into  the  one  small  chamber  which  the  parsimony  of 
Ehzabeth  allotted  as  adequate  private  accommodation  for  a 
great  lady.  Probably  few  of  these  splendid  and  stately 
personages  at  first  noticed  "  the  witty,  comical,  facetiously 
quick  and  unparalleled  John  Lyly,"  whom  it  is  thought  that 
Ben  Jonson  had  in  his  mind  when  he  drew  the  character  of 
Fastidious  Brisk,  in  Every  Man  Out  of  his  Humour.  "  A  neat, 
spruce,  affecting  courtier,  one  that  wears  clothes  well  and  in 
fashion  ;  practised  by  his  glass  how  to  salute  ;  speaks  good 
remnants  notwithstanding  the  base  viol  and  tobacco  ;  swears 
tersely  and  with  variety  ;  cares  not  what  lady's  favour  he 
belies,  or  great  man's  familiarity  ;  a  good  property  to  per- 
fume the  boot  of  a  coach. ' '  The  picture  is  doubtless  exaggerated 
but  it  probably  gives  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  man  whom  we 
imagine  to  have  been  as  neat,  precise,  and  dainty  in  his 
person  as  he  was  in  his  works.  Nothing  in  the  Court  life  around 
him  escaped  his  shrewd  observation.  He  noted  the  affecta- 
tions of  the  great  lords  and  ladies,  and  their  half-unconscious 
efforts  to  attain  to  a  distinctive,  courtly  mode  of  speech.  He 
saw  how  eagerly  the  stay-at-homes  tried  to  imitate  the  Italian 
mannerisms  brought  back  and  proudly  displayed  by  those 
who  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  visit  the  country  which  was  at 
that  time  the  object  of  the  highest  admiration  to  one  class  of 
Englishmen,  and  of  the  deepest  abhorrence  to  another.  I^yly 
saw  his  opportunity,  and  he  set  to  work  upon  the  book  which 
was  to  have  so  memorable  an  influence  on  the  manners  and  the 
literature  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  was  to  add  a  new  word 
to  the  English  language.  "  Fitting  his  work  with  delicate 
intuition  to  a  wavering  irresolute  tendency,  uncertain  as  yet  of 
its  object,  he  left  that  tendency  by  reaction  a  self-conscious 
fashion/' 

121 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Euphues  appeared  in  1579.  I^  claims  to  be  a  story  telling 
of  the  adventures  of  a  young  man  making  the  fashionable  tour 
of  Europe;  but  the  story  is  of  the  shghtest.  At  every  possible 
I  opportunity  the  writer  digresses  into  moralizings  upon  subjects 
jsuch  as  friendship,  love,  constancy  and,  above  all,  education. 
JBuphues  is,  Lyly  tells  us,  a  youth  "  of  more  wit  than  wealth, 
and  yet  of  more  wealth  than  wisdom."  He  sets  out  for  Italy 
with  his  friend  Philautus,  and  they  arrive  at  Naples,  "  a  place 
of  more  pleasure  than  profit,  and  yet  of  more  profit  than 
pietie."  Here  they  meet  with  a  lady,  lyUcilla,  and  become 
rivals  for  her  love.  Philautus  is  first  favoured,  then  Kuphues, 
but  finally  the  lady  rejects  both  in  favour  of  a  worthless  fellow. 
Curio.  The  two,  reconciled  by  their  common  misfortune, 
first  mourn  together,  then  seek  comfort  in  various  moral 
reflections.  '*  Come  therefore  to  me,'*  says  Euphues,  *'  al 
ye  lovers  that  have  bene  deceived  by  fancy,  the  glasse  of 
pestilence,  or  deluded  by  woemen,  the  gate  to  perdition,  be  as 
earnest  to  seeke  a  medicine,  as  you  were  eager  to  runne  into  a 
mischief e,  the  earth  bringeth  forth  as  well  Endive  to  delight 
the  people,  as  Hemlocke  to  endaunger  the  patient,  as  wel  the 
Rose  to  distil,  as  the  Nettle  to  sting,  as  well  the  Bee  to  give 
Hunny  as  the  Spyder  to  yield  poyson." 

The  rest  of  the  book  is  taken  up  with  an  Epistle,  Euphues 
and  his  Ephcebus,  and  other  letters  of  Euphues  addressed  to 
various  friends,  in  which  a  complete  theory  of  education  is 
given.  The  tone  of  these  epistles  justifies  Kingsley's  praise. 
"  The  Rose  that  is  eaten  with  the  Canker  is  not  gathered  because 
it  groweth  on  that  stalke  that  the  sweet  doth,  neither  was 
Helen  made  a  Starre  bicause  she  came  of  that  Egge  with 
Castor,  nor  thou  a  gentleman  in  that  thy  auncestores  were  of 
nobilitie.  It  is  not  ye  descent  of  birth  but  ye  consent  of  condi- 
tions that  maketh  Gentlemen,  neither  great  manors  but  good 
manners  that  expresse  the  true  Image  of  dignitie.  There  is 
copper  coin  of  the  stamp  that  gold  is,  yet  it  is  not  currant, 
there  commeth  poyson  of  the  fish  as  well  as  good  oyle,  yet  is 
it  not  wholsome,  and  of  man  may  proceede  an  evill  Childe  and 
yet  no  Gentleman.     For  as  the  Wine  that  runneth  on  the  lees, 

122 


is  not  therefore  to  be  accompted  neat  bicause  it  was  drawn  of 
the  same  peece.  Or  as  the  water  that  springe th  from  the 
fountaines  head  and  floweth  into  the  filthy  channel  is  not  to  be 
called  cleere  bicause  it  came  of  the  same  streame  ;  so  neither 
is  he  that  descendeth  of  noble  parentage,  if  he  desist  from 
noble  deeds  to  be  esteemed  a  Gentleman." 

In  1580  a  second  part  of  the  work  appeared  under  the  title 
of  Euphues  and  his  England.  This  tells  how  Euphues  and 
Philautus  set  out  on  a  visit  to  England,  land  at  Dover,  and 
proceed  to  Canterbury,  where  they  meet  Fidus,  an  old  bee- 
keeper, who  tells  them  a  very  long  and  somewhat  tedious 
story  of  his  own  life.  After  this  they  go  on  to  London  and 
visit  the  Court,  which  far  surpasses  all  their  expectations. 
*'  I  was  driven  into  a  maze,"  says  Euphues,  "  to  behold  the 
lusty  and  brave  gallants,  the  beautiful  and  chaste  ladies,  the 
rare  and  goodly  orders."  Philautus  falls  in  love  with  one  of 
these  ladies,  but  is  again  unfortunate  in  his  suit.  Euphues 
writes  several  letters  to  his  friend  full  of  praises  of  the  Court, 
and  especially  of  Lord  Burleigh  and  Queen  Elizabeth. 

From  the  few  extracts  that  have  been  given  the  reader  will 
have  little  diflficulty  in  recognizing  the  main  qualities  of 
the  style  of  Euphues.  These  may  be  briefly  summed  up  as 
follows  :  (i)  Alliteration ;  (2)  Balanced,  antithetical  sentences  ;, 
(3)  Metaphors  of  a  curious,  far-fetched  character,  piled  one 
upon  another  ;  (4)  Illustrations  from  an  "  unnatural  natural 
history."  This  last  quality  may  be  further  illustrated  by  the 
following  extracts.  "  The  filthy  Sow  when  she  is  sick  eateth 
the  Sea  Crab,  and  is  immediately  recured."  '*  Is  not  poyson 
taken  out  of  the  Hunny suckle  by  the  Spider  ?  "  "  The 
Estrich  that  taketh  the  greatest  pride  in  her  feathers  picketh 
some  of  the  worst  out,  and  burneth  them." 

Euphues  received  at  Court  a  universal  and  immediate 
welcome.  From  one  of  the  most  insignificant  members  of 
society  Lyly  became  at  once  almost  the  best  known  and  most 
eagerly  sought  after.  Great  ladies  petitioned  him  to  teach 
them  the  incomparable  graces  of  his  style,  and  deferred  to  his 
opinion  in  all  questions  of  elegance  of  diction.     "  Our  nation 

123 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

is  in  his  debt,"  wrote  Edward  Blount,  a  bookseller  of  the  time 
of  Charles  I,  "for  a  new  English  which  he  taught  them. 
Euphues  and  his  England  began  first  that  language.  All  our 
Ladies  were  then  his  Schollers.  And  that  Beautie  in  Court 
which  could  not  Parley  Euphuisme,  was  as  little  regarded  as 
she  which  now  there  speaks  not  French."  It  is  to  ladies  that 
the  book  is  specially  addressed.  "  Euphues  had  rather  lye  shut 
in  a  I^adye's  casket,"  wrote  lyyly,  "  than  open  in  a  Scholler's 
Studie."  As  has  been  said,  his  wishes  in  this  respect  were 
fully  accompHshed.  Ben  Jonson  throughout  his  Every  Man 
Out  of  His  Humour,  makes  fun  of  I^yly's  popularity  with 
the  ladies  of  the  Court.  "  O  sweet  Fastidious  Brisk  !  O  fine 
courtier  !  "  he  makes  one  of  them  exclaim  at  intervals  ;  and 
Fastidious  Brisk  apologises  for  being  late  for  an  appoint- 
ment by  pleading  the  demands  the  ladies  make  upon  his  time. 
"  Good  faith,  I  must  crave  pardon,  I  was  invited  this  morning 
ere  I  was  out  of  my  bed,  by  a  bevy  of  ladies,  to  a  banquet, 
whence  it  was  almost  one  of  Hercules's  labours  for  me  to  come 
away,  but  that  the  respect  of  my  promise  did  so  prevail  with 
me.     I  know  they'll  take  it  very  ill." 

Lyly's  influence  on  the  writers  of  his  day  was  scarcely  less 
marked  than  his  influence  on  the  Court.  Robert  Greene  (see 
p.  139),  whom  Gabriel  Harvey  called  "the  ape  of  Euphues," 
has  some  passages  which  might  have  come  straight  from  I^yly's 
book  itself.  "  The  Turtle  pearketh  not  on  barren  trees,"  he 
wrote  in  his  novel  Menaphon,  "  Doves  delight  not  in  foule 
cottages,  the  I^yon  frequents  not  putrified  haunts.  .  .  ,  He 
that  grafteth  JilUflowers  upon  the  Nettle  marreth  the  smell  ; 
who  coveteth  to  tie  the  I^ambe  and  the  lyion  in  one  tedder 
maketh  a  brawle."  Peele  and  Nash  and  the  other  University 
wits  also  show  marks  of  the  same  influence. 

When  Euphues  first  appeared,  Shakespeare,  a  lad  of  fifteen, 
was  still  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  But  he  came  up  to  I^ondon 
before  the  rage  for  the  book  had  subsided,  and  the  influence  of 
I/yly  can  be  traced  in  all  his  early  works.  The  pedantical 
school  master,  Holof ernes,  and  the  solemn  curate.  Sir  Nathaniel, 
in  Love's  Labour  s  Lost  are  both  Euphuists ;  and  Beatrice 
124 


and  Benedict  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  might  well  be  a  lady 
and  gentleman  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Court,  highly  proficient 
in  the  fashionable  speech  of  their  day. 

There  was,  in  fact,  scarcely  any  work  published  during  the 
ten^ears  which  followed  the  appearance  of  Euphues  that  did  _  ,^ 
not  show  some  signs  of  being  affected  by  the  fashion  set  in  this 
book  ;  and  for  another  ten  years  its  influence,  though  not  so 
strong,  was  still  felt.  Then  it  died  out  completely.  "  When 
literary  popularity  is  based  on  faults  accepted  by  the  bad  taste 
of  an  epoch  for  transcendent  merits,"  says  J.  A.  Symonds,  "  it 
is  foredoomed  to  a  dechne  as  rapid  as  its  uprise,  and  to  reaction 
as  powerful  as  the  force  which  promoted  it.  Euphues  en- 
tranced society  in  the  sixteenth  century  because  our  literature,^ 
in  common  wtththat'of  Italy  and  Spain  and  France,was  passing 
through  a  phase  of  affectation  for  which  Euphuism  was  the 
natural  expression.  It  corresponded  to  something  in  the 
manners^and^modes  of  thinking  jvhich  prevailed  in  Europe  at 
that  period.  It  was  the  English  type  of  an  all  but  universS 
disease.  There  would  have  been  Euphuism  in  some  form  or 
other  without  Euphues." 

Later  writers  who  have  attempted  to  imitate  this  style  have 
met  with  little  success.  Scott's  Sir  Piercie  Shafton  in  The 
Monastery  is  intended  as  a  picture  of  the  fashionable  gallant  of 
EHzabeth's  day,  given  over  entirely  to  Euphuism,  but  he  only 
succeeds  in  being  a  caricature. 

The  immense  popularity  of  Euphues,  though  it  brought  Lyly 
much  fame,  does  not  appear  to  have  brought  him  much  money. 
We  know  very  little  of  his  after  life,  but  we  know  that  he  was 
often  in  great  straits  through  poverty.  He  married,  and 
children  were  born  to  him,  but  who  his  wife  was,  and  whether 
his  home  life  was  happy  or  miserable  we  cannot  tell. 

About  1581  lyyly  turned  to  a  new  Hterary  enterprise,  which 
was  probably  suggested  to  him  by  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  in  whose 
service  he  then  was.  The  taste  for  dramatic  representations 
had  been  steadily  growing  in  England,  and  at  this  time  there 
were  in  existence  several  companies  of  actors,  each  under  the 
patronage  of  some  great  person.    These  companies  acted  the 

I2S 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

masques,  interludes,  and  other  dramatic  productions  then 
available.  Some  of  them  consisted  of  the  boys  who  formed 
the  choir  of  a  church,  and  one  of  the  most  noted  was  the  Com- 
pany of  Child  Players  of  the  Chapel  Royal.  I^yly's  new 
project  was  the  writing  of  plays  for  this  company,  and  it  was 
highly  successful.  The  dainty,  tuneful  lyrics  which  are  to  be 
found  in  these  plays  give  him  as  great  a  claim  to  the  remem- 
brance of  succeeding  ages  as  does  his  once  famous  Euphues. 

For  thirteen  years  Lyly  was  the  Court  playwright.  His 
ambition  was  to  attain  the  post  of  Master  of  the  Revels,  but 
although  from  time  to  time  hopes  were  held  out  to  him,  nothing 
substantial  followed.  He  seems  to  have  kept  at  least  a  portion 
of  his  high  spirits  through  all  his  trials,  and  a  certain  quality  of 
humour  which  enabled  him  to  see  the  laughable  side  even  of  his 
disappointments.  Two  petitions  which  he  addressed  to  the 
queen  have  survived,  and  in  the  second  of  these,  dated  1601, 
he  prays  that  since  he  seems  born  to  have  nothing,  he  may  have 
a  protection  to  pay  nothing,  "  which  suite  is  like  his,  that 
having  followed  the  Court  ten  years,  for  recompence  of  his 
servis  committed  a  Robberie  and  took  it  out  in  a  pardon." 
When  his  petitions  failed  to  bring  any  improvement  in  his 
circumstances,  he  sought  consolation  in  the  means  that  were 
at  hand.  From  his  youth,  he  had  been  *'  a  hungry  reader  of 
good  books  "  and  now  he  read  more  than  ever ;  and  he  had 
been  among  the  first  to  use  the  newly  introduced  tobacco.  So 
that  we  may  think  of  him,  as  the  years  went  by  and  the 
brilliant  Court  lost  its  attractions,  comforting  himself  in 
a  fashion  very  familiar  to  our  own  day,  with  a  pipe,  and  a 
favourite  book,  perhaps,  too,  with  some  of  the  philosophic 
reflections  he  had  put  forward  so  sagely  in  his  Euphues.  He 
died  in  November  1606  being  then  fifty-two  years  of  age. 


126 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   SONNETS    OF   SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 

ABOUT  three  years  after  the  publication  of  I^yly's 
Euphues,  wliile  its  phrases  were  still  constantly  in  the 
L  mouths  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  fashion,  a  new 
topic  of  literary  interest  began  to  occupy  the  attention  of  the 
Court.  A  series  of  sonnets  was  being  handed  about  in  certain 
circles,  and  each  fresh  one  as  it  appeared  was  bringing  interest 
and  excitement  to  a  higher  point.  Not  that  the  bare  fact  of  a 
courtier  having  written  verses  had  in  it  anything  remarkable. 
Every  Elizabethan  gentleman  could  do  as  much ;  verse- 
writing  was  almost  as  necessary  and  as  ordinary  an  accomplish- 
ment as  dancing.  But  these  sonnets  were  pronounced  by  all 
who  read  them  to  be  of  exceptional  and  wonderful  beauty ; 
and  their  author  was  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

No  other  name  could  have  been  so  potent,  for  Sidney  was 
the  darling  of  the  Court.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir  Henry  Sidney, 
Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland,  and  the  nephew  of  Elizabeth's 
brilliant  favourite,  the  Earl  of  I^icester.  He  was  the  friend 
of  the  new  poet,  Edmund  Spenser,  whose  praise  was  at 
that  moment  in  everybody's  mouth ;  it  was  at  Sidney's 
beautiful  home  of  Penshurst  that  Spenser's  Shepheard's 
Calendar  had  been  written.  But  it  was  not  only  through  his 
connexions  and  friends  that  Philip  Sidney  was  famous. 
Though  he  was  only  twenty-six  years  old  he  had  made  a  notable 
place  for  himself  even  among  the  crowd  of  brilliant  men  and 
women  that  Elizabeth  had  gathered  round  her.  Others 
might  have  done  greater  deeds,  or  shown  greater  genius,  but 
none  was  loved  like  Philip  Sidney.  Men  loved  him  for  his 
noble,  generous  nature,  for  his  courage,  for  his  knightly  skill 

127 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  grave  courtesy,  for  his  gallant  bearing  and  his  handsome 
face.  Every  one  who  came  near  him  felt  the  singular  charm 
of  a  character,  which,  even  across  the  three  centuries  that 
separate  his  age  from  our  own,  has  power  to  capture  our 
imaginations  and  stir  our  hearts.  The  Queen  herself  loved 
this  "  brightest  jewel  of  her  crown,"  though,  a  little  before  the 
time  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  her  wrath  had  been  hot 
against  him  for  the  plain  words  he,  a  stripling,  had  ventured 
to  address  to  her  on  the  subject  of  her  proposed  marriage  with 
the  Duke  of  Anjou.  Sidney  had,  in  fact,  but  just  returned 
from  a  year's  retirement  from  the  Court,  made  necessary  by 
the  Queen's  displeasure.  He  had  spent  the  year  very  happily 
at  Wilton,  the  home  of  his  sister,  Mary,  CountCvSS  of  Pembroke, 
and  there  he  had  written  for  her  his  famous  romance  of  Arcadia. 
Now  the  Queen's  anger  had  abated,  and  he  had  returned,  with 
the  glory  of  a  sturdy  and  proved  patriotism  added  to  all  his 
other  graces. 

Further  than  this,  the  interest  of  the  Court  had  been  aroused 
by  a  love  story  of  which  Sidney  was  the  hero,  and  which  was, 
at  that  very  time,  the  subject  of  general  conversation.  It 
was  comparatively  an  old  story,  for  it  had  begun  five  years 
before.  Philip,  then  a  youth  of  twenty-one,  had  just  returned 
from  the  Continental  tour,  which  was  intended  to  put  the 
final  touch  to  an  education  carried  on  at  Shrewsbury  School 
and  the  University  of  Oxford.  He  had  arrived  home  in  time 
to  join  the  train  of  nobles  who  followed  Elizabeth  in  the  famous 
progress  through  England  which  culminated  in  the  historic 
revels  at  Kenilworth.  One  of  the  places  visited  was  Chartley, 
the  seat  of  the  old  Earl  of  Essex,  who  was  already  well  known 
to  Sidney.  Penelope,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  was  at 
this  time  about  thirteen  years  old,  and  it  occurred  to  the  Earl 
that  the  young  man  whose  rare  qualities  he  had  already  recog- 
nized, would  be  an  altogether  desirable  bridegroom  for  his 
daughter.  Some  arrangement  seems  to  have  been  made 
between  the  two  families,  though  there  was  no  formal  betrothal, 
and  friends  on  both  sides  spoke  of  the  marriage  as  a  settled 
thing.  There  were  ladies  at  the  Court  who  had  heard  it  so 
128 


Sir  Philip  Sidney 

From  a  curious  Print  after  Isaac  Oliver 

Photo.  W.  A.  Manaell  &  Co. 


128 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 

referred  to  by  Sidney's  mother  and  by  his  sisters.  In  the  next 
year  the  Earl  of  Essex  died,  leaving  a  message  for  Sidney. 
"  Tell  him  I  sent  him  nothing,  but  I  wish  him  well ;  so  well 
that  if  God  do  move  their  hearts  I  wish  that  he  might  match 
with  my  daughter.  I  call  him  son  ;  he  is  so  wise,  virtuous  and 
godly.  If  he  go  on  in  the  course  he  hath  begun,  he  will  be  as 
famous  and  worthy  a  gentleman  as  England  ever  bred."  Still, 
for  some  years,  nothing  further  is  heard,  and  we  do  not  know 
what  were  the  thoughts  and  wishes  of  either  Penelope  or 
Philip.  Circumstances  which  have  not  come  to  light  may 
have  made  it  impossible  for  the  young  man  to  begin  his  wooing  ; 
perhaps  there  was  a  delay  owing  to  money  difficulties,  for 
the  Sidneys  were  poor.  But  we  cannot  quite  think  that  if 
Philip  had  been  really  ardent  in  his  love  for  Penelope  he  would 
have  failed  to  make,  during  these  five  years,  some  deter- 
mined effort  to  win  her.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  done  so  ; 
and  the  explanation  probably  is  that  he  was  wholly  taken  up 
with  the  ambitious  dreams  of  youth,  with  the  great  schemes 
and  the  glorious  future  of  which  he  and  his  little  group  of 
friends — Fulke  Greville,  Edward  Dyer  and  Edmund  Spenser — 
talked  together  with  such  high-hearted  hopefulness.  In  this 
state  of  comfortable  indifference,  or  assurance,  he  seems  to 
have  remained  until  he  returned  to  Court  after  his  year's  stay 
at  Wilton,  and  was  met  with  the  news  that  Penelope  Devereux 
had  lately  married  Lord  Rich — a  nobleman,  wealthy,  but  much 
older  than  herself. 

It  was  of  this  story  that  the  lords  and  the  ladies  of  EHza- 
beth's  Court  were  talking  when  Sidney's  sonnets,  signed 
*  Astrophel '  and  addressed  to  *  Stella,'  began  to  be  handed 
about  among  the  privileged  friends  of  the  writer.  Gradually 
the  circle  of  readers  was  extended,  and  every  gentleman  who 
wished  to  be  considered  in  the  front  rank  of  fashion  made 
haste  to  address  to  his  lady  a  poem  modelled  upon  these 
greatly  lauded  productions.  The  sonnet  had  been  intro- 
duced from  Italy  long  before,  in  the  days  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey 
(see  p.  lOo)  ;  but  it  had  not  found  much  favour.  Now  its 
vogue  was  established.    During  the  next  twenty  years  there 

I  129 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

was  scarcely  a  poet  of  any  note — not  excepting  Shakespeare 
himself — who  did  not  produce  a  sonnet  series,  and  many 
versifiers  of  no  note  at  all  also  attempted  the  fashionable  exercise. 

Some  of  the  popularity  of  Sidney's  sonnets  was  undoubtedly 
due  to  the  fame  of  the  writer,  but  much  was  a  genuine  tribute 
to  their  merit.  We  cannot  deny  to  the  Elizabethans  a  measure 
of  literary  taste  large  enough  to  enable  them  to  recognize  how 
superior  these  sonnets  were  to  all  but  the  very  highest  ex- 
amples of  the  mass  of  verse  which  the  age  was  producing.  The 
judgment  of  modern  criticism  has  fully  confirmed  the  contem- 
porary verdict. 

We  do  not  know  in  what  order  the  sonnets  were  written,  or 
over  what  period  the  writing  of  the  series  extended,  though 
something  can  be  gathered  by  carefully  following  out  the  line 
of  thought  that  runs  through  them.  Critics  believe  that  they 
were  completed  within  a  year,  and  are  inclined  to  place  first  in 
order  a  group  of  sonnets  in  which  the  writer  treats,  with  much 
fervour,  of  Stella's  perfections,  her  husband's  unworthiness,  and 
his  own  passion.  He  tells  how,  to  ease  his  pain,  he  was  impelled 
to  write  the  sonnets  yet  could  find  no  fitting  words,  until — 

"  Fool  I  "  said  my  Muse  to  me,  "  look  in  thy  heart  and  write." 

And  out  of  his  heart,  as  it  must  still  seem  to  the  reader,  though 
modern  criticism  has  much  to  say  about  the  common  Uterary 
conventions  of  the  time,  and  about  wholesale  borrowings  from 
French  and  Latin,  Sidney  wrote.  It  is  true,  he  says,  that 
beauty  is  but  external,  and  passing,  that  men  make  for  them- 
selves gods  unworthy  of  their  worship, — 

True,  and  yet  true  that  I  must  Stella  love. 

Reason  shows  how  much  loss  such  an  attachment  must  bring 
him — 

I  see,  and  yet  no  greater  sorrow  take 
Than  that  I  lose  no  more  for  Stella's  sake. 

Men  see  his  pensiveness,  and  guess  that  some  great  enterprise 

is  occupying  his  mind, — 

Alas,  the  race 
Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  neither  stop  nor  start 
But  only  Stella's  eyes  and  Stella's  heart. 

130 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 

The  heavens  interest  him  no  more,  only  "  those  two  stars  in 
Stella's  face."  Politics,  once  so  dear,  have  now  no  existence 
for  him ;  when 

Questions  busy  wits  to  me  do  frame, 

I,  cumbered  with  good  manners,  answer  do, 

But  know  not  how  ;  for  still  I  think  of  you. 

Then,  after  the  beautiful  sonnet  addressed  to  the  moon  ("  With 
how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,"),  come  lamentations  for  his  early 
insensibility  : 

I  might  I  imhappy  word — Oh  me,  I  might. 
And  then  would  not,  or  could  not  see  my  bliss. 
Till  now  wrapt  in  a  most  infernal  night. 
I  find  how  heavenly  day,  wretch  1  I  did  miss. 

He  calls  on  sleep  to  free  him  for  a  time  from  his  pains  : 

Come,  Sleep  !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace. 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 

He  prays  that  if  he  is  to  continue  to  suffer  such  pangs,  they  may 
be  allowed  to  kill  him  at  once  : 

A  kind  of  grace  it  is  to  slay  with  speed. 
Then  follows  a  group  of  sonnets  in  which  it  appears  that,  in 
answer  to  his  continued  pleadings,  Stella  has  shown  him  some 
signs  of  favour,  and  has  acknowledged  that  her  love  is  given  to 
him,  as  his  to  her. 

Gone  is  the  winter  of  my  misery  ! 
My  spring  appears  :  O  see  what  here  doth  grow. 
For  Stella  hath,  with  words  where  faith  doth  shine. 
Of  her  high  heart  given  me  the  monarchy. 

But  this  does  not  last  long.  Stella  repents  of  her  lapse  from 
the  duty  she  owes  to  her  husband, — 

When  I  was  forced  from  Stella  ever  dear — 
Stella,  food  of  my  thoughts,  heart  of  my  heart — 
Stella,  whose  eyes  make  all  my  tempests  clear — 
By  Stella's  laws  of  duty  to  depart ; 

For  a  time  he  rails  against  the  fate  that  has  separated  them, 
then  sadly  submits : 

Stella,  since  thou  so  right  a  princess  art 
Of  all  the  powers  which  life  bestows  on  me. 
That  ere  by  them  ought  undertaken  be. 
They  first  resort  unto  that  sovereign  part ; 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Sweet,  for  a  while  give  respite  to  my  heart. 
Which  pants  as  though  it  still  should  leap  to  thee  : 
And  on  my  thoughts  give  thy  lieutenancy 
To  this  great  cause  which  needs  both  use  and  art. 
And  as  a  queen,  who  from  her  presence  sends 
Whom  she  employs,  dismiss  from  thee  my  wit. 
Till  it  have  wrought  what  thy  own  will  attends. 
On  servants'  shame  oft  masters'  blame  doth  sit : 
O  let  not  fools  in  me  thy  works  reprove. 
And  scorning  say,  "  See  what  it  is  to  love  I  " 

What  the  '  great  cause  '  was  we  do  not  know ;  perhaps  some 
scheme  for  the  colonization  of  the  western  lands,  such  as,  we 
know,  occupied  his  thoughts  at  this  time.  If  so,  it  is  probable 
that  the  Queen,  as  she  had  done  before,  refused  to  allow  him 
to  leave  her  kingdom  on  such  an  enterprise.  But  he  found 
other  '  great  causes '  in  which  to  spend  himself  ;  and,  on  the 
field  of  Zutphen,  in  1586,  he  received  his  death-wound.  On 
the  same  field  he  gained  for  himself  undying  glory,  not  by  any 
fierce  onslaught  or  deed  of  valour,  but  by  a  quiet,  simple,  yet 
stupendous  act  of  unselfishness,  of  which  all  the  world  has 
heard.  He  was  carried  to  Arnheim,  and  there,  twenty-five 
days  later,  he  died,  after  enduring  great  suffering  with  a  brave 
patience  that  witnessed  "  that  those  sweet  and  large  affec- 
tions in  him  could  no  more  be  contracted  with  the  narrowness 
of  pain,  grief  or  sickness  than  any  sparkle  of  our  immortality 
can  be  privately  buried  in  the  shadow  of  death." 


13* 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DR.    FAUSTUS:     FRIAR    BACON    AND 
FRIAR    BUNGAY 

THROUGHOUT  the  Middle  Ages  there  had  been 
current  all  over  Europe  a  legend  of  a  man  who  had 
sold  his  soul  to  the  devil  in  return  for  certain  privileges  ; 
and  students  of  the  period  have  seen  in  this  legend  the  un- 
conscious expression  of  mediaeval  man's  strongly  felt,  yet 
hardly  reahzed  needs.  Like  the  hero  of  the  legend  he  rebelled 
instinctively  against  the  cramping  conditions  which  the  age 
imposed  upon  him.  He  longed  for  a  larger,  fuller  and  richer 
life,  for  wider  experiences  and  more  ample  opportunities.  He 
wanted  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  narrow  present  by  magic  whispers 
from  the  past,  and  glorious  visions  of  the  future.  Like  the 
hero  of  the  legend,  also,  he  was  reckless  as  to  the  price  he  paid 
if  he  only  could  compass  his  wish  ;  let  him  but  get  the  cup  in 
his  hands  he  would  drain  it  to  the  last  drop  before  he  thought 
of  the  reckoning. 

The  growth  of  this  feeling  among  the  more  ardent  and  im- 
passioned natures  was  one  of  the  many  factors  which,  working 
together,  brought  about  the  Renaissance.  As  the  time  drew 
near  when  Europe  should  be  delivered  from  the  straitness  of 
mediaeval  bonds,  the  old  legend  took  definite  form  and  finally 
attached  itself  to  the  person  of  a  certain  Dr.  Faustus,  who  lived 
in  Thuringia  during  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
Its  details  were  decided  by  the  new  spirit  which  was  then  so 
powerfully  moving  the  whole  of  Europe.  Faustus  was  said 
to  have  sold  his  soul  to  the  devil  in  return  for  twenty-four 
years  of  life,  during  which  all  knowledge  and  all  pleasure  should 
lie  open  before  him,  aU  the  riches  of  the  world  should  be  within 

133 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

his  grasp,  and  an  attendant  fiend  should  be  allotted  to  him  to 
do  his  will.  Rude  versions  of  the  story  were  written  down, 
and  one  of  these  was  published  at  Frankfort  in  1587.  At  that 
period  the  literary  influence  of  the  Continent  was  strongly  felt 
in  England,  and  a  crowd  of  translators  were  busy  turning  into 
English  any  work,  either  classical  or  modern,  which  they 
thought  would  be  acceptable  to  the  public  ;  it  was  not  long, 
therefore,  before  an  English  version  of  the  Faustbuch  was  to  be 
bought  at  the  bookstalls  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  The  story 
soon  became  popular  in  England.  Its  wild  daring  fell  in  witli 
the  temper  of  the  nation,  fresh  from  a  victory  over  Spain,  and 
full  of  the  hot  spirit  of  adventure ;  its  supernatural  element 
suited  the  taste  of  a  public  which  still  devoutly  believed  in  the 
black  art,  and  punished  with  the  greatest  barbarity  old 
women  accused  of  witchcraft. 

Among  its  readers  the  Faustbuch  seems  to  have  numbered 
some  members  of  a  remarkable  group  of  writers  who  were  at 
this  time  settled  in  I/ondon.  This  group  furnishes  striking 
examples  of  the  class  of  men  typified  in  the  Faust  legend — 
men  in  whom  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  burnt  fiercely  and 
without  restraint.  Its  most  prominent  members  were  George 
Peele,  Robert  Greene,  Thomas  Nash,  Christopher  Marlowe,  and 
Thomas  Kyd.  All  of  them  had  been  educated  at  one  or  other 
-of  the  Universities,  and  they  are  sometimes  known  as  the 
'  University  Wits.'  One  by  one  they  had  drifted  up  to 
I/ondon.  They  had  no  settled  occupation  or  means  of  liveli- 
hood, but  they  were  willing  to  sacrifice  all  hope  of  position  and 
advancement,  all  the  comforts  and  even  the  necessities  of 
existence  to  the  passion  by  which  they  were  consumed — the 
burning  desire  to  taste  all  that  life  could  offer,  to  know,  to  feel, 
to  enter  into  full  possession  of  the  golden  world  which  seemed 
in  those  wonderful  days  to  be  opening  before  them. 

Their  poverty  drove  them  to  the  poorer  quarters  of  I^ondon, 
and  they  had  their  homes  in  foul  streets,  amid  squalor  and 
wretchedness.  But  nothing  daunted  the  wild  spirit  of  adventure 
within  them.  They  revelled  and  rioted  and  feasted  while  any 
money  remained,  and  when  there  was  none  they  starved  until 

134 


DR.    FAUSTUS 

their  ready  pens  had  managed  to  produce  something  saleable 
— a  pamphlet,  a  story,  a  poem,  a  ballad  to  be  sung  in  the 
streets,  a  set  of  doggerel  verses  upholding  one  or  other  side  in 
the  many  controversies  of  the  day.  Soon  they  turned  eagerly 
to  the  theatre  as  offering  a  more  fruitful  source  of  income.  The 
drama  was  rapidly  growing  in  popularity.  Dramatic  shows  of 
various  kinds  had  long  been  common  at  the  Court  and  at  the 
houses  of  the  great  nobles.  Now  they  began  to  spread  among 
the  people.  Rough  dramas,  acted  first  in  inn-yards,  drove  the 
old  miracle  and  morality  plays  quite  out  of  the  field.  The 
strong,  virile  taste  of  the  Elizabethans  found  these  older  works 
tasteless  and  insipid.  It  required  something  nearer  to  real 
life,  and  thus  the  regular  drama  grew  up  to  satisfy  a  public 
demand.  At  the  time  when  the  University  wits  were  leading 
their  struggUng,  hand  to  hand  life  in  lyondon,  its  vogue  had  so 
greatly  increased  that  at  least  two  theatres  had  been  built  for 
the  representation  of  plays,  and  these  were  flourishing  greatly. 
Players  could  earn  large  incomes,  fare  sumptuously,  and  go  in 
silks  and  satins,  while  poor  authors  starved  in  garrets.  No 
wonder  the  eyes  of  the  University  wits  turned  longingly  in 
the  direction  of  the  theatre.  Some  of  them  became  actors, 
others  wrote  new  plays  or  touched  up  old  ones — did,  in  fact, 
any  kind  of  odd  literary  work  that  was  required,  by  means  of 
which  they  could  fill  their  empty  purses.  Thus  came  into 
existence  a  body  of  dramatic  literature,  which,  although  only 
in  a  few  cases  of  real,  lasting  merit,  was  valuable  in  helping  for- 
ward the  great  dramatic  development  which  was  to  culminate 
in  the  work  of  Shakespeare. 

Among  this  wild  and  riotous  band,  the  most  daring,  the  most 
reckless,  and  the  greatest  was  Christopher  Marlowe.  He  alone 
of  them  all  can  be  called  a  great  genius.  The  others  were 
capable  of  moments  of  inspiration  in  which  they  produced 
work  of  rare  quality.  But  wild  Kit  Marlowe  rose  high  above 
them  all.  When  he  was  only  twenty-four  years  old,  he  produced 
his  play  of  Tamhurlaine  the  Great,  which  raised  a  storm  among 
the  critics  of  the  day.  It  was,  they  declared,  a  violation  of  all 
known  rules,  a  piece  of  *  swelling  bombast,'  a  ranting,  raging, 

I3S 


1 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

extravagant  turbulent  riot  of  noise  and  horror.  Yet  the 
public  of  the  day  came  in  crowds  to  see  Tamhurlaine  acted  ; 
and  critics  of  later  times  have  recognized  that  in  this  play, 
crude  and  violent  as  it  is,  the  great  EHzabethan  drama  began. 
In  1588  Marlowe  turned  to  the  story  of  Dr.  Faustus,  the 
subject  of  which  was  so  congenial  to  his  restless,  insatiable  spirit 
of  curiosity.  In  his  hands  Faustus  becomes,  not  an  ordinary 
vulgar  magician,  but  a  learned  doctor  whose  desire  for  know- 
ledge and  for  power  has  in  it  some  of  the  noble  elements  that 
inspire  the  true  scholar.  The  veritable  Renaissance  hunger 
and  thirst  is  upon  him.  He  is  learned  in  the  lore  of  the  School- 
men, and  has  found  it  barren  and  unprofitable,  leading  to  no 
full  and  large  hfe  such  as  he  longs  to  lead.  Magic  alone  seems 
to  promise  him  his  heart's  desire. 

O  what  a  world  of  profit  and  delight, 

Of  power,  of  honour,  of  omnipotence 

Is  promised  to  the  studious  artizan  I 

All  things  that  move  between  the  quiet  poles 

Shall  be  at  my  command.  .  .  . 

A  sound  magician  is  a  mighty  god. 

The  thought  of  the  power  that  is  to  be  his  intoxicates  him, 
and  he  bursts  into  rapturous  anticipations  of  the  use  he  will 
make  of  it : 

Shall  I  make  spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please. 

Resolve  me  of  all  ambiguities, 

Perform  what  desperate  enterprise  I  will  ? 

I'll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold, 

Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl. 

And  search  all  corners  of  the  new-found  world 

For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates  ; 

I'll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy 

And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings  ; 

Much  of  this  sounds  like  a  magniloquent  description  of  what 
men  actually  did  in  the  great  Elizabethan  age,  when  new 
worlds,  both  actual  and  intellectual,  were  discovered  by  daring 
adventurers. 

The  compact  with  the  Evil  One  is  signed,  and  Faustus  enters 
upon  the  joys  he  has  dreamed  of.  He  travels  to  and  fro  all 
over  the  world,  he  works  miracles  to  his  heart's  desire.  The 
136 


« 


DR.    FAUSTUS 

forces  of  nature  obey  him,  he  has  riches  at  command,  and  his 
attendant  fiend,  Mephistophilis,  is  obedient  to  his  will.  Much 
of  what  he  does  seems,  to  modern  readers,  puerile  and  un- 
worthy of  the  great  scheme  of  the  play.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  Marlowe  had  to  please  an  Elizabethan  audience, 
and  that  the  Elizabethans  had  a  childlike  taste  for  marvels  and 
a  keea  enjoyment  of  what  we  should  now  consider  silly  practi- 
cal jokes  or  rough  horse-play.  Even  Shakespeare  found  that 
some  concessions  had  to  be  made  to  the  *  groundUngs '  who 
were  powerful  to  make  or  to  mar  a  new  production  ;  and  in  his 
royal  and  splendid  fashion  he  gave  them  the  childish  playthings 
they  asked  for,  wrought  of  fine  gold  and  precious  stones  ;  and 
so  we  get  his  matchless  series  of  fools.  Marlowe  could  not  do 
this  ;  he  could  give  only  the  ordinary  glass  and  tinsel,  and  he 
flung  these  down  scornfully,  with  no  attempt  to  disguise  his 
contempt  of  "  such  conceits  as  Clownage  keeps  in  pay." 

The  clowning  element,  however,  forms  after  all  but  a  small 
part  in  the  adventures  of  Dr.  Faustus.  He  makes  the  treasures 
of  the  classic  past  his  own  : 


i)> 


Have  I  not  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander's  love  and  CEnon's  death  ? 
And  hath  not  he,  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes, 
"With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp, 
Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis  ? 


I 


He  calls  up  the  bodily  presence  of  Helen  of  Troy,  and  his 
address  to  her  is  one  of  the  finest  poetical  passages  in  the  whole 
play: 

Was  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thousand  ships 

And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? 

Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss. 

Here,  again,  the  legend  is  made  a  kind  of  allegory,  shadowing 
man's  recovery  of  the  old  classic  works  of  Greece  and  Rome.  \ 
"  All  through  the  Middle  Ages,  uneasy,  imperfect  memories  of  / 
Greece  and  Rome  had  haunted  Europe.  .  *  .  That  for  which 
Faustus  sold  his  soul  .  .  .  was  yielded  to  the  world,  without 
price,  at  the  Renaissance." 

The  twenty-four  years  is  nearly  over,  and  Faustus  must  pay 
the  price.     He  returns  to  Wittenberg  and  there  awaits  the 

137 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ! 

coming  of  the  fiends  who  are  to  carry  off  his  soul  to  hell.     The  \ 

agony  of  this  last  scene  is  almost  intolerable  :  -  ' 

O  Faustus,  \ 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live,  i 

And  then  thou  must  be  damned  perpetually  I  ; 

Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven. 

That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come  ;  j 

Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make  | 

Perpetual  day  ;  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day. 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul !  .  .  .  . 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike,  I 

The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  danin'd.  ■ 

O,  I'll  leap  up  to  God  !     Who  pulls  me  down  ? 

See,  see,  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament  1  ' 

One  drop  of  blood  would  save  my  soul,  half  a  drop ;  ah,  my  Christ, 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ  I 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him  ;  O,  spare  me,  I^ucifer  1 

So  Marlowe  brings  his  tragic  story  to  its  close.  It  is  no  ! 
wonder  that  when  Dr.  Faustus  was  acted  before  an  Elizabethan  ! 
audience  its  effect  was  stupendous.  The  celebrated  tragic  '■ 
actor,  Edward  AUeyn,  took  the  part  of  Faustus.  Men  | 
trembled,  we  are  told,  as  if  the  fiends  on  the  stage  had  really  > 
come  from  the  lower  world.  Fifty  years  later  Prynne  tells  of  ' 
a  tradition  current  in  his  day,  that  the  visible  apparition  of  : 
the  Devil  appeared  "  on  the  stage  at  the  Belsavage  Play- 
house (to  the  great  amazement  both  of  the  actors  and  the 
spectators)  whilst  they  were  prophanely  playing  the  History  of  .; 
Faustus,  the  truth  of  which  I  have  heard  from  many  now  alive,  | 
who  well  remember  it,  there  being  some  distracted  with  that  I 
fearful  sight." 

The  rest  of  the  story  of  Marlowe's  short  life  and  tragical  death 
is  soon  told.  He  wrote  other  plays — Edward  II,  The  Jew  of  \ 
Malta,  Dido  of  Carthage.  The  first  of  these  has  been  judged  ' 
by  some  critics  to  rival  Shakespeare's  Richard  III ;  the  other  \ 
two  are  of  inferior  merit.  In  May  1593  a  warrant  was  \ 
issued  by  the  Star  Chamber  summoning  him  to  appear  | 
before  their  I^ordships  to  answer  to  some  charge,  the  nature  \ 
of  which  was  not  specified.  He  appears  to  have  been  i 
examined  and  released,  and  to  have  left  I^ondon  immediately  ] 
for  Deptford.     Drake's    famous    vessel.  The  Golden  Hind,  \ 

138 


Illustration  to  Marlowe's  '<  Dr.  Faustus' 
From  an  ancient  engraving 


'38 


I 


DR.    FAUSTUS 

/as  at  this  time  lying  at  Deptford,  and  was  daily  visited 
by  crowds  of  eager  sight-seers.  Marlow  went  among  the 
rest,  and  on  board  this  ship  he  met  his  death.  According  to 
tradition  he  was  stabbed  in  a  brawl  with  one  of  his  com- 
panions. He  was  buried  in  the  parish  church,  and  the  record 
in  the  register  runs,  "  Christopher  Marlowe,  slain  by  Francis 
Archer." 

About  six  months  after  Dr.  Faustus  was  put  upon  the  stage, 
another  play  dealing  with  the  same  subject  was  produced 
by  Robert  Greene.  Greene  also  belonged  to  the  company 
of  the  University  wits,  and  his  life  was  wild  and  dissolute. 
vShortly  before  his  death  he  wrote  a  kind  of  confession 
which  he  called,  A  Groatsworth  of  Wit  Bought  with  a  Million 
of  Repentance.  In  this  he  told  of  the  life  he  had  led  since 
he  left  the  University  and  came  to  I^ondon.  "  I  became," 
he  says,  "  an  author  of  plays,  and  a  penner  of  love  pamphlets, 
so  that  I  soon  grew  famous  in  that  qualitie,  that  who  for  that 
trade  grown  so  ordinary  about  I^ondon  as  Robin  Greene  ? 
Yong  yet  in  years,  though  olde  in  wickednesse,  I  began  to 
resolve  that  there  was  nothing  bad  that  was  profitable,  where- 
upon I  grew  so  rooted  in  all  mischiefe  that  I  had  as  great  delight 
in  wickednesse  as  sundry  hath  in  godlinesse  and  as  much 
fehcitie  I  took  in  villainy  as  others  had  in  honestie."  He  tired 
out  the  patience  of  his  friends  and  reduced  himself  to  the 
extremest  poverty,  so  that  he  was  compelled  to  write  stories, 
plays,  poems  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  sell  them  for  any 
wretched  sum  the  publishers  and  managers  would  offer  him. 
"  For  these  my  vaine  discourses,"  he  goes  on,  "  I  was  beloved 
of  the  more  vainer  sort  of  people,  who,  being  my  continual 
companions,  came  still  to  my  lodging,  and  there  would  con- 
tinue quaffing,  corousing  and  surfeting  with  me  all  the  day 
long."  We  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  is  some  exaggera- 
tion in  this  picture.  Greene's  plays  are  pure  in  tone,  and  the 
lyrics  scattered  through  them  are  of  fresh  and  wonderful  beauty ; 
his  women  characters  have  a  delicacy  and  a  charm  which  lift 
them  high  above  the  creations  of  every  other  dramatist  of  the 
day,  with  the  single  exception  of  Shakespeare.     It  is  hard  to 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  \ 

believe  that  the  man  who  created  the  fair  rustic  maid,  Margaret" 
of  Fressingfield,  was  the  tall  ragged  fellow,  with  rough  headi 
of  hair  and  long  red  beard  who  swaggered  and  bullied  and:] 
brawled  through  the  streets  of  I^ondon,  so  that  peaceablel 
citizens  dreaded  the  name  of  Robin  Greene.  Yet  so  his  own 
account  and  the  accounts  of  his  contemporaries  show  him^ 
to  us ;  and  we  marvel  the  more  at  the  work  which  he , 
produced.  ' 

Greene  chose  as  the  foundation  of  his  play  an  EngHsh  prose  i 
tract  which  connected  the  old  legend  with  Roger  Bacon,  the' 
learned  Schoolman  of  the  thirteenth  century.  He  dealt  withj 
it  in  a  Hghter  vein  than  that  of  Marlowe  in  Dr.  Faustus,  and' 
he  introduced  a  love  story  which  divided  attention  with  the/ 
main  theme  of  the  play.  Briefly  told,  the  story  is  as  follows  :\ 
Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  son  of  Henry  III,  comes  with  hisj 
companions,  I^ord  I^acy  and  others,  into  Suffolk.  There  he| 
sees  Margaret,  daughter  of  the  keeper  of  Fressingfield,  where] 
*'  among  the  cream  bowls  she  did  shine,"  and  at  once  falls  in 
love  with  her.  *' A  bonnier  wench,"  he  says,  "all  Suffolk! 
cannot  yield.  All  Suffolk  !  nay,  all  England  holds  not  such." 
It  is  suggested  to  him  that  he  shall  attempt  to  win  Margaret's  i 
love  by  the  aid  of  Friar  Bacon,  the  wizard  who  lives  at  Oxford, 
and  he  goes  off  to  find  him,  commissioning  I^acy  to  meet! 
Margaret  at  Fressingfield  Fair  and  woo  her  for  his  prince,  j 
lyacy,  however,  falls  in  love  with  Margaret  on  his  own  account,  j 
and  she  with  him,  and  after  some  attempt  to  keep  faith  with 
the  prince,  he  asks  her  to  marry  him.  She  consents,  audi 
Friar  Bungay,  who  is  also  a  magician,  though  inferior  in  power » 
to  Friar  Bacon,  promises  to  aid  them.  This  scene  Bacon,  by  j 
his  magic  power  enables  the  prince  to  witness  in  his  crystal; 
glass ;  the  prince  is  infuriated,  and  Bacon  causes  a  devil  to , 
enter  and  carry  off  Bungay  on  his  back.  Many  other  marvels  J 
are  performed,  and  then  we  come  to  the  account  of  Bacon's  i 
great  and  crowning  work.  He  and  Friar  Bungay  have  made  i 
a  great  brazen  head,  formed  within  and  without,  like  thej 
head  of  a  man,  and  by  the  power  of  the  evil  spirits  that  they 
have  called  up  they  have  learnt  how  it  may  be  made  to  speak.  | 
140 


FRIAR    BACON   &  FRIAR    BUNGAY 

(Certain  substances  must  be  burnt  before  it,  and  incanta- 
tions said  ;  then  in  about  a  month's  time — the  spirits  cannot 
j^ive  the  exact  date — it  will  speak.  Bacon  and  Bungay  design 
to  learn  from  it  how  they  can  build  round  England  a  wall  of 
jrass — a  wall  so  strong 

That  if  ten  Caesars  liv'd  and  reign'd  in  Rome, 

With  all  the  legions  Europe  doth  contain. 

They  should  not  touch  a  grass  of  English  ground. 

The  fateful  time  when  the  figure  shall  speak  has  almost  come, 
and  Bacon  addresses  his  servant,  Miles  : 

Thou  know'st  that  I  have  dived  into  hell 
And  sought  the  darkest  palaces  of  fiends  ; 
That  with  my  magic  spells  great  Belcephon 
Hath  left  his  lodge  and  kneelM  at  my  cell ; 
The  rafters  of  the  earth  rent  from  the  poles 
And  three-form'd  Luna  hid  her  silver  looks. 
Trembling  upon  her  concave  continent. 
When  Bacon  read  upon  his  magic  book. 
With  seven  years  tossing  necromantic  charms, 
Poring  upon  dark  Hecat's  principles, 
I  have  framed  out  a  monstrous  head  of  brass, 
That  by  the  enchanting  forces  of  the  devil 
Shall  tell  out  strange  and  uncouth  aphorisms. 
And  girt  fair  England  with  a  wall  of  brass. 
Bimgay  and  I  have  watched  these  three-score  days. 
And  now  our  vital  spirits  crave  some  rest. 

Miles  is  bidden  to  watch  the  head,  and  wake  his  master  as  soon 
as  it  shows  signs  of  speaking.  At  midnight  the  lips  move  and 
the  words  *'  Time  is,"  are  solemnly  spoken.  Miles,  however, 
scoffs  at  this  utterance,  and  presently  the  head  speaks  again, 
"  Time  was."  Again  Miles  answers  with  ribald  joking  when  for 
the  third  time  words  come  from  the  image.  "  Time  is  past," 
it  says,  and  at  the  same  moment  lightning  flashes  forth,  a 
hand  appears  and  smashes  the  head  with  a  hammer.  Bacon 
wakes  and  learns  what  has  happened,  and  how  all  his  toil  has 
been  in  vain.  He  pours  curses  on  the  terrified  Miles,  and  so 
the  scene  ends.  The  next  scene  shows  Bacon  repentant, 
determined  to  abjvire  his  magic  art,  and  spend  the  rest  of  his 
life  in  attempting  to  win  God's  pardon.  He  brings  the  love 
affairs  of  the  fair  maid  of  Fressingfield  to  a  happy  conclusion. 
She  marries  I^acy,  and  the  prince  is  reconciled  to  them. 

141 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Greene's  play  may  be  called  the  comedy,  as  Marlowe's  is  the 
tragedy,  of  the  old  legend.     It  is  full  of  rough  jovial  fun,  as  thej 
devils  appear  and  play  their  rollicking  pranks,  but  the  country! 
scenes  in  which  the  love  story  of  Margaret  of  Fressingfield  isl 
told  have  a  fresh  and  peaceful  beauty.  l 

Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay  was  written  in  1589.  Three  i 
years  later  Greene  died,  in  extreme  poverty  and  misery,  at  the  J 
age  of  thirty-two.  A  long  carouse  with  his  friend  Thomas  Nash ) 
and  others  is  said  to  have  been  the  immediate  cause  of  hisi 
death.  During  his  last  illness  he  was  sheltered  and  tended  by! 
a  poor  shoemaker,  and  his  djdng  message  to  his  neglected  and^ 
deserted  wife  speaks  of  his  gratitude  to  this  man.  '*  Doll,  I| 
charge  thee,  by  the  love  of  our  youth,  and  by  my  soule's  rest, 
that  thou  wilt  see  this  man  paide  ;  for  if  hee  and  his  wife  had! 
not  succoured  me,  I  had  died  in  the  streete."  ': 

So,  prematurely  and  miserably,  ended  the  lives  of  these  two^ 
representatives  of  the  early  Elizabethan  dramatists.  Both* 
died  before  they  had  reached  the  fullness  of  their  powers,  j 
Marlowe,  some  critics  think,  might,  if  he  had  lived,  have^ 
equalled  Shakespeare,  and  Greene  too  gave  promise  of  great^ 
things.  In  their  early  deaths  literature  sustained  a  most 
serious  loss.  ^ 


142 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 

AT   the  time    of    Sidney's    death    his    friend,   Edmund 

/\  Spenser,  was  in  Ireland.  Soon  after  the  pubUcation 
^  V.  of  the  Shepheard's  Calendar  he  had  been  appointed 
Private  Secretary  to  Lord  Grey  de  Wilton,  the  new  I^ord 
Deputy,  and  in  August  1580  he  left  England.  The  two  friends 
probably  took  leave  of  one  another  at  Penshurst,  where  Sidney 
was  still  in  retirement,  and  they  never  met  again.  Spenser 
remained  in  Ireland  for  nearly  ten  years,  and  when  the  news 
of  Sidney's  death  came  to  him  there,  he  wrote,  in  memory  of 
his  friend,  Colin  Clout's  Mournful  Ditty  for  the  Death  of 
Astrophel. 

In  Ireland  Spenser  entered  into  a  new  world.  The  Desmond 
rebelHon  was  at  its  height,  and  Lord  Grey  took  the  sternest 
measures  to  quell  it.  The  state  of  the  country  was  terrible. 
Death  in  warfare,  death  from  an  ambushed  foe,  death  by 
treachery,  death  by  pestilence,  death  by  starvation,  death  at 
the  hands  of  the  pubUc  executioner — these  were  so  common 
that  men  had  almost  ceased  to  look  upon  them  with  horror. 
The  land  was  laid  desolate.  **  The  curse  of  God  was  so  great, 
and  the  land  so  barren  both  of  man  and  beast  that  whosoever 
did  travel  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  all  Munster,  even  from 
Waterford  to  Smerwick,  about  six  score  miles,  he  should  not 
meet  man,  woman,  or  child  saving  in  cities  or  towns,  nor  yet 
see  any  beasts  save  foxes,  wolves,  or  other  ravening  beasts." 

Lord  Grey  left  Ireland  in  1582,  but  Spenser  remained  behind, 
and  held  in  the  years  that  followed,  various  offices  under  the 
government.  In  1586  he  received  a  grant  of  the  manor  and 
castle  of  Kilcolman,  a  ruined  house  that  had  belonged  to  the 

H3 


I 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

family  of  the  Desmonds,  and  there  he  lived  from  that  time 
forward.  Kilcolman  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  and  disaffected  districts  in  all  Ireland.  North  of  it 
stretched  a  desolate  tract,  half  forest,  half  bog,  which  extended 
far  across  Munster,  and  here  lurked  savage  wolves  and  savage 
men.  The  Desmonds  had  their  '  great  fastness  '  in  its  dreary 
depths,  and  outlaws  and  rebels  congregated  there,  making 
it  a  place  of  terror.  The  country  immediately  surrounding 
Spenser's  house  had  a  wild  beauty.  In  front  lay  a  small  lake, 
and  the  Galtee  Mountains  rose  behind.  Spenser  has  celebrated 
"  Arlo,  the  best  and  fairest  hill  in  all  the  holy  island's  heights," 
and  the  "  soft  rombling  brooks  "  which  run  from  it  tlurough 
the  defiles  in  the  mountains.  "  A  most  beautifuU  and  sweet 
countrey  as  any  is  under  heaven,"  it  would  have  been,  had  | 
not  man  laid  his  desolating  hand  upon  it.  I 

Such  was  the  home  in  which  Edmund  Spenser  wrote  his  ! 
great  poem  The  Faerie  Queene.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been  \ 
thinking  over  it,  and  as  early  as  1579  some  portion  had  \ 
been  written.  This  was  submitted  to  Gabriel  Harvey — a  noted  j 
Cambridge  scholar  of  his  day  and  the  friend  and  Hterary  guide  ' 
of  both  Sidney  and  Spenser — ^for  his  criticism.  Harvey  did  ^ 
not  think  very  highly  of  it ;  it  was  too  startling  a  departure  j 
from  classical  tradition  to  win  his  approval.  He  was  surprised  ■ 
that  Spenser  himself  should  regard  it  as  a  really  serious  piece  ! 
of  work,  and,  he  prayed  that  God  or  some  good  angel  would 
put  his  friend  in  a  better  mind.  But,  happily,  no  such  '  better  i 
mind  '  came  to  Spenser,  and  as  soon  as  his  official  duties  gave 
him  leisure,  he  took  up,  at  lonely  Kilcolman,  the  work  on  1 
.  which  his  heart  had  so  long  been  set.  |  During  the  three  most  j 
[  eventful  years  in  Elizabeth's  reign — the  year  of  Sidney's 
1  death  and  Shakespeare's  appearance  in  London,  the  year  of  , 
the  execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  the  year  of  the  great  ^ 
I  Armada — the  Faerie  Queene  came  into  being.  Amid  scenes  j 
^of  strife  and  misery  and  crime,  and  poverty  in  its  most  re- 
volting forms,  without,  as  far  as  we  can  tell,  companionship  i 
or  encouragement,  Spenser  worked  on.  \ 

Many  elements  went  to  the  making  of  his  great  work.    He  I 
144 


^ 


THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 

put  into  it,  as  a  true  poet  must,  the  best  of  himself  and  of  what 
life  had  given  him.  He  did  not,  as  Chaucer  had  done  when 
he  set  himself  to  write  the  Canterbury  Tales,  look  back  over 
his  life  and  recreate  the  scenes  and  the  people  that  had  been 
famiUar  to  him.  Spenser,  like  Chaucer,  was  born  and  bred  in 
London.  But  the  years  he  had  spent  there  seem  to  have  left 
little  impression  upon  his  mind.  He  wrote,  it  is  true,  in  one 
of  his  poems,  of  "  merry  London  my  most  kindly  nurse,"  but 
we  cannot  recognize  in  the  stories  of  the  Faerie  Queene  the 
figures  of  any  of  those  with  whom  he  must  have  been  famiHar 
in  his  home,  in  the  streets,  or  at  the  school  of  the  Merchant 
Taylors'  Company  where  he  was  educated.  Save  for  a  few 
references  to  "  CleopoUs,  the  fairest  citty  that  might  be  seen," 
there  is  nothing  to  indicate  that  Spenser  was  familiar  with 
EUzabeth's  great  capital. 

The  reason  for  this  difference  between  the  Canterbury  Tales 
and  the  Faerie  Queene  lies  in  the  different  natures  of  the  two  i 
poets.     Spenser  was  more  highly  imaginative  than  Chaucer,  j 
He  had  not  so  keen  an  appreciation  of  the  common  things  of 
life,  but  loved,  rather,  that  which  was  strange  and  unusual. 
He  had,  too,  a  delight  in  beauty  beyond  what  is  common,  even 
in  poets.     Beauty  of  form,  of  colour,  of  sound,  and  above  all,    , 
moral  and  spiritual  beauty  he  loved  with  a  great  passion. 
Lovely  shapes  flitted  before  his  eyes.     He  saw  the  white 
radiance  of  truth,  the  enchanting  grace  of  courtesy,  the  grave 
loveliness  of  temperance  with  such  a  rapture  of  realization  that 
he  must  needs  make  for  himself  some  image  to  embody  his 
conception  and  receive  his  worship.     These  images  turned 
to  hving  men  and  women  beneath  his  hand,  but  they  were  not 
the  men  and  women  of  common  earth.     Theirs  must  be  a 
country  of  mystery  and  wonder ;    and  Fortune  was  good  to       - 
Spenser  in  leading  him  to  his  lonely  Irish  home.     For  certainly    ^ 
not  in  England  could  he  have  found  a  region  which  would  have 
helped  his  imagination  to  picture  that  country  as  wild  Ireland 
helped   it.    There   he  found   the   dark   background   against 
which  his  visionary  men  and  women  showed  like  forms  of  Hght ; 
there  were   the  forests  "  not  perceable  with  power  of  any 

K  145 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Starr,"  the  "  wilderness  and  wastful  deserts  *'  where  they 
adventured  like  fairy  knights  and  ladies  in  the  days  when  the 
world  was  young,  yet  with  the  grace  and  dignity  of  high-born 
couxtiers  of  the  great  Queen.  There,  too,  was  the  bestial  crew 
of  savage  and  treacherous  foemen,  who  should  test  the  knight's 
j  valour  and  the  lady's  purity. 

J      Yet  there  was  a  stern  Puritan  strain  in  Spenser's  nature  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  abandon  himself  entirely  to  these 
seductive  dreams  of  beauty.     He  could  not  justify  himself  in 
his  own  eyes  if  he  produced  a  work  which  had  no  high  moral 
jy  purpose.  i^His  conception  of  a  poet — a  conception  common  to 
^  his  time — was  that  he  should  be  first  of  all  a  great  teacher. 
To  this  end  he  fashioned  his  work.     It  was  to  be,  essentially,  an 
exposition^of  spiritual  and  moral  truth.v    "  The  generall  end 
of  all  the  booke,"  he  wrote,  later,  to  his  friend,  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  "  is  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  vertuous 
and  gentle  discipHne  :   which  for  that  I  conceived  shoulde  be 
most  plausible  and  pleasing,  being  coloured  with  an  historicall 
fiction.  ...     I  chose  the  historye  of  King  Arthure.  ...     I 
labour  to  pourtraict  in  Arthure,   before  he  was  king,   the 
image  of  a   brave  knight,  perfected  in  the  twelve  private 
morall  vertues,  as  Aristotle  hath  devised ;    the  which  is  the 
purpose  of  these  first  twelve  bookes ;  which  if  I  finde  to  be 
well  accepted,  I  may   be  perhaps   encoraged  to  frame  the 
other  part  of  poUiticke  vertues  in  his  person,  after  hee  came 
to  be  king." 
I      The  work,  therefore,  is  an  allegory,  in  which  the  characters 
I  represent_  certain  virtues  and  vices.     But  Spenser  put  into  it 
more  than  this.     He  had  a  hvely  concern  in  what  was  happen- 
ing around  him  and  Hke  most  BHzabethans,  he  was  a  keen 
poHtician ;  moreover,  his  short  experience  at  Court  had  taught 
him  that  some  part  of  the  scheme  of  his  poem  must  allow 
of  the  introduction  of  extravagant  praise  and  flattery  addressed 
t.  to  the  Queen.     For  these  reasons  the  Faerie  Queene  became 
I  a  double  allegory  ;    the  characters  were  made  to  take  on  a 
I  second  signification,    and   to   stand   for   important    poHtical 
'  \characters  of  the  day.     Nor  does  this  complete  the  '*  allegori- 
146 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 
cal  tangle."  "  In  the  Faerie  Queene,"  says  Spenser,  "  I  meane 
Glory  in  my  general  intention  :  but  in  my  particular  I  conceive 
the  most  excellent  and  glorious  person  of  our  soveraine  the 
Queene  and  her  kingdome  in  Fairyland."  "  And  yet,"  he  goes 
on,  "  in  some  places  els,  I  doe  otherwise  shadow  her.  For 
considering  she  beareth  two  persons,  the  one  of  a  most  royall 
Queene  or  Empresse,  the  other  of  a  most  vertuous  and  beautiful! 
Lady,  the  latter  part  in  some  places  I  doe  expresse  in  Bel- 
phoebe."  And  so  with  other  characters  of  the  poem.  They 
stand  variously  for  several  personages,  as  well  as  for  a  moral 
quality. 

All  this  is  very  perplexing,  and  if  the  reader  tries  con- 
scientiously to  keep  all  the  different  threads  clear  in  his  mind 
as  he  reads,  his  enjoyment  of  the  poem  will  be  sadly  marred. 
But  he  need  not  do  this.  Spenser  himself  often  forgets  all 
about  his  allegory  and  loses  himself  in  the  sheer  delight  of  the 
story.  (^  The  best  way  to  read  the  Faerie  Queene  is  to  consider  it 
simply  as  a  beautiful  fairy  story,  and  disregard  altogether  the 
allegorical  intention.  Then  nothing  but  pure  pleasure  can 
result. 

The  first  three  books  of  the  poem  were  finished  when,  in 
1589,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  came  to  Kilcolman.  He  was,  for 
the  time,  out  of  favour  with  the  Queen  ;  his  rival,  Essex,  was 
in  the  ascendant.  Raleigh  thought  it  best  to  leave  England, 
and  he  came  over  to  Ireland  to  look  after  the  estates  he  held 
there.  Spenser,  in  his  poem  Colin  Clout's  Come  Home  Again, 
has  told  the  story  of  Raleigh's  visit.  In  this  poem  the  rustic 
style  of  the  Shepheard's  Calendar,  is  again  adopted,  and  Spenser 
is  '  Colin  Clout '  and  Raleigh  the  '  Shepheard  of  the  Ocean,' 
who  appears  before  his  friend  and  complains  of  the  hardness  of 
his  lot. 

His  song  was  all  a  lamentable  lay 

Of  great  unkindness  and  of  usage  hard, 

Of  Cynthia,  the  Ladie  of  the  Sea, 

Which  from  her  presence  faultlesse  him  debar'd. 

Spenser,  to  divert  his  friend's  mind  from  these  sorrows,  brought 
out  the  first  three  books  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  Raleigh's  fine 
and  cultured  critical  taste  at  once  saw  the  merit  of  the  poem. 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  he  urged  Spenser  to  bring  it  to  the  Court  of  EUzabeth  ;  or, 
as  Colin  Clout  tells  the  story  : 

He  gan  to  cast  great  lyking  to  my  lore,  | 

And  great  dislyking  to  my  lucklesse  lot,  | 

That  banisht  had  myselfe,  like  wight  forlore. 

Into  that  waste,  where  I  was  quite  forgot.  i 

The  which  to  leave,  thenceforth  he  counseld  mee,  | 

Unmeet  for  man  in  whom  was  ought  regardf ull. 

And  wend  with  him,  his  Cynthia  for  to  see  ;  i 

Whose  grace  was  great,  and  bounty  most  rewardfull ;  .  .  f  I 

So  what  with  hope  of  good  and  hate  of  ill. 

He  me  perswaded  forth  with  him  to  fare. 

Nought  took  I  with  me  but  mine  oaten  quill ;  i 

Small  needments  else  need  shepheard  to  prepare.  ^ 

The  two  friends  crossed  the  sea,  and  made  their  appearance  at  j 

the  Court  of  Elizabeth.     To  Raleigh's  great  delight,  the  mood  ,| 
of  his  royal  mistress  had  changed.     Cynthia  smiled  upon  him 

once  more,  and  upon  his  poet-companion.  j 

The  Shepheard  of  the  Ocean  (quoth  he)  f 

Unto  that  Goddesse  grace  me  first  enhanced,  i 

And  to  my  oaten  pipe  inclined  her  eare, 

That  she  thenceforth  therein  'gan  take  delyht ; 

And  it  desired  at  timely  houres  to  heare,  I 

All  were  my  notes  but  rude  and  roughly  dight ;  ] 

Spenser  soon  perfected  himself  in  the  courtier's  art  of  flattery,  \ 
and  doubtless  Elizabeth  afterward  read  with  complete  satisfac-  • 
tion  his  account  of  the  impression  she  at  this  time  made  upon  : 
his  mind. 

But  if  I  her  like  ought  on  earth  might  read, 

I  would  her  lyken  to  a  crown  of  lillies. 

Upon  a  virgin  brydes  adorned  head,  ■ 

With  Roses  dight  and  Goolds  and  Daffadillies.  i 

He  proceeds  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  and  finding  his  powers  | 
quite  unequal  to  giving  any  adequate  idea  of  her  transcendent  ' 
qualities,  he  concludes : 

More  fit  it  is  t'  adore  with  himible  mind 
The  image  of  the  heavens  in  shape  humane. 

Either  in  gratitude  for  this  praise,  or  in  acknowledgment  of 
the  great  merit  of  the  Faerie  Queen,  Elizabeth  gave  to  Spenser 
a  pension  of  £50  a  year. 
148 


THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 

Spenser  next  made  his  appeal  to  a  larger  public.  The  follow- 
ing entry  is  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  the  Stationers'  Com- 
pany, under  the  date  December  i,  1589.  "  Entered  ...  a 
book  intytuled  the  fayrye  Queene  dysposed  into  xij  bookes  &c, 
authorysed  under  thandes  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbery  and 
bothe  the  Wardens."  The  poem  being  thus  authorized,  the 
first  three  books  were  published  in  1590,  with  a  dedication  to 
the  Queen : 

To 

The  Most  High,  Mightie  and  Magnificent 

Empresse, 

Renowned  for  piety,  vertue,  and  all  gratious  government, 

El^IZABETH, 

By  the  Grace  of  God, 

Queene  of  England,  Fraunce,  and  Ireland,  and  of  Virginia, 

Defendeur  of  the  Faith,  &c.. 

Her  most  humble  Servaunt 

Edmund  Spenser 

Doth  in  all  humilitie 

Dedicate,  present,  and  consecrate 

These  his  labours. 

To  live  with  the  etemitie  of  her  fame. 

The  claim  is  a  bold  one — "  To  live  with  the  eternitie  of  her 
fame  "  ;  but  it  has  been  justified. 

It  would  be  impossible  here  even  to  outUne  all  the  stories 
contained  in  the  Faerie  Queene.  We  will  quote  Spenser's  own 
account  of  his  general  plan,  and  then  deal,  very  briefly,  with 
the  First  Book.  "  I  devise,"  he  says  in  the  letter  to  Raleigh, 
part  of  which  has  been  already  quoted,  "  that  the  Faery  Queene 
kept  her  Annuall  feaste  xii  dayes ;  uppon  which  xh  severall 
dayes,  the  occasions  of  the  xii  severall  adventures  hapned, 
which  being  undertaken  by  xii  severall  knights,  are  in  these 
xii  books  severally  handled  and  discoursed.  The  first  was 
this.  In  the  beginning  of  the  feast,  there  presented  him  selfe 
a  tall  clownishe  younge  man,  who  falHng  before  the  Queene  of 
Faries  desired  a  boone  (as  the  manner  then  was)  which  during 
that  feast  she  might  not  refuse ;  which  was  that  hee  might 
have  the  achievement  of  any  adventure,  which  during  that 
feaste  should  happen  :  that  being  graunted,  he  rested  him  on 
the  floore,  unfitte  through  his  rusticity  for  a  better  place. 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Soone  after  entred  a  faire  I^adye  in  mourning  weedes,  riding  on 
a  white  Asse,  with  a  dwarfe  behinde  her  leading  a  warlike  steed, 
that  bore  the  Armes  of  a  knight,  and  his  speare  in  the  dwarfe's 
hand.  Shee,  falling  before  the  Queene  of  Faeries,  complayned 
that  her  father  and  mother,  an  ancient  King  and  Queene,  had 
beene  by  an  huge  dragon  many  years  shut  up  in  a  brasen 
Castle,  who  thence  suffered  them  not  to  yssew  ;  and  therefore 
besought  the  Faery  Queene  to  assygne  her  some  one  of  her 
knights  to  take  on  him  that  exployt.  Presently  that  clownish 
person,  upstarting,  desired  that  adventure :  whereat  the 
Queene  much  wondering  and  the  I^ady  much  gainsaying  yet 
he  earnestly  importuned  his  desire.  In  the  end  the  I^ady  told 
him,  that  unlesse  that  armour  which  she  brought  would  serve 
him  (that  is,  the  armour  of  a  Christian  man  specified  by  Saint 
Paul,  Ephes.  VI.)  that  he  could  not  succeed  in  that  enterprise  ; 
which  being  forthwith  put  upon  him,  with  dew  furnitures  there- 
unto, he  seemed  the  goodliest  man  in  al  that  company,  and  was 
well  liked  of  the  lady.  And  eftsoones  taking  on  him  knight- 
hood, and  mounting  on  that  straunge  courser,  he  went  forth  with 
her  on  that  adventure  :  where  beginneth  the  first  booke,  viz. : 

A  gentle  knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine,  &c. 

This  "  tall  clownishe  younge  man  "  is  the  Knight  of  HoUness, 
afterward  St.  George,  the  patron  Saint  of  England.  The 
lady  is  Una,  or  Truth,  one  of  the  loveliest  in  all  the  bright 
throng  of  Spenser's  heroines.  It  is  she  who  upholds  her  knight 
through  the  toils  and  adventures  of  their  quest,  who  reclaims 
him  from  error,  strengthens  him  when  he  is  weak,  and  rewards 
him  in  the  hour  of  victory.  Spenser  gives,  throughout  the 
book,  a  series  of  pictures  of  Una.  He  shows  her  first  when  she 
starts  with  the  Red  Cross  Knight : 

A  lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside. 
Upon  a  lowly  Asse  more  white  then  snow, 
Yet  she  much  whiter,  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low. 
And  over  all  a  black  stole  shee  did  throw. 
As  one  that  inly  moumd  :  so  was  she  sad. 
And  heavie  sat  upon  her  palfrey  slow  ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had. 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milk  white  lambe  she  lad. 

ISO 


Una  is  rescued  by  a  Troupe  of  Fauns  and  Satyrs  150 

Gertrude  Demain  Hammond,  R.I. 


Ip  THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 

And  again : 


I 


One  day  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrksome  way. 

From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  aUght, 

And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 

In  secret  shadow,  farre  from  all  men's  sight  : 

Prom  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  imdight. 

And  layd  her  stole  aside.     Her  angel's  face 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright ; 

And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shadie  place ; 

Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 


Marvels  of  every  kind  meet  the  knight  and  his  lady  as  they 
proceed  on  their  journey.  In  "a  hollow  cave  amid  the 
thickest  woods  "  they  encounter  the  foul  monster  Error,  whom 
the  knight  slays.  He  becomes  subject  to  the  spells  of  an  En- 
chanter, Archemago,  who  deceives  him  by  means  of  false 
dreams,  brought  from  the  house  of  Morpheus,  where 


P 


A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe. 
And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  Bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne  : 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard  ;  but  careless  Quiet  lyes. 
Wrapt  in  etemall  silence  far  from  enemyes. 


The  knight  forsakes  Una,  and  takes  another  lady,  the  false 
Duessa.  Una,  "  forsaken,  wofull,  soHtarie  mayd  "  wanders 
"  through  woods  and  wastnesse  wide  "  seeking  her  champion  ; 
a  lion  constitutes  himself  her  bodyguard,  until  he  is  slain  by  the 
Paynim  Knight,  Sansloy  ;  from  Sansloy  Una  is  rescued  by  a 
troupe  of  Faunes  and  Satyres,  and  for  a  time  she  lives  with  them 
in  the  wood  as  their  queen,  teaching  them  "  trew  sacred  lore, 
which  from  her  sweet  lips  did  redound.*'  From  this  wood  by  the 
help  of  the  rustic  Knight  Satyrane,  she  escapes,  meets  Prince 
Arthur,  and  is  courteously  protected  by  him.  Meanwhile  the 
Red  Cross  knight  is  taken  by  Duessa  to  the  House  of  Pride,  where 
he  fights  with  and  overcomes  Sansjoy,  brother  to  Sansfoy  and 
Sansloy.  By  the  arts  of  Duessa,  Sansjoy  is  conveyed  from  the 
field,  and  taken  to  regions  below  the  earth  to  be  cured.  The 
knight,  warned  by  his  attendant  dwarf,  who  has  seen  the 
horrors  in  the  secret  parts  of  the  House  of  Pride,  steals  away 


ft 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  next  morning,  is  taken  prisoner  by  the  giant  Orgoglio,  and 
rescued  by  Prince  Arthur,  whom  Una  brings  to  his  aid,  she 
having  met  the  dwarf  and  learnt  from  him  of  his  master's 
plight.  Orgoglio  is  killed  and  his  house  overthrown  by  Prince 
Arthur.  The  Red  Cross  Knight,  feeble  and  unfit  for  warfare, 
is  taken  by  Una  to  the  House  of  Holiness,  where  he  is 
strengthened  and  made  ready  for  his  struggle  with  the  dragon, 
the  end  of  his  quest.  For  two  days  he  fights  with  this  terrible 
monster,  and  at  last  kills  him,  and  rescues  Una's  father  and 
mother.  The  last  canto  is  taken  up  with  an  account  of  the 
betrothal  and  marriage  of  Una  and  the  Red  Cross  Knight. 

The  second  book  deals  in  a  similar  manner  with  the  ad- 
ventures of  Sir  Guyon,  the  Knight  of  Temperance ;  the  third 
with  those  of  Britomart,  the  maiden  Knight  of  Chastity. 

For  about  a  year  and  a  half  after  the  publication  of  the  first 
three  books  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  Spenser  remained  in  England, 
enjoying  the  fame  which  his  work  had  brought  him.  Every- 
where he  was  acclaimed  as  a  great  poet ;  generous  and  lavish 
praise  was  poured  upon  him  by  his  brother-poets,  and  men  of 
letters.  During  this  year  and  a  half  he  wrote  several  of  his 
shorter  poems.  Then,  disappointed  that  his  great  work  had 
not  brought  him  some  substantial  result  in  the  shape  of  a 
liberal  pension  or  a  lucrative  oifice,  he  returned  to  Ireland. 
Here,  in  1594,  he  married ;  and  though  we  know  nothing  at 
all  about  his  wife  except  that  her  name  was  Elizabeth,  the 
glorious  marriage  hymn,  Epithalamium,  which  her  husband 
wrote  in  her  honour,  raises  her  in  our  imaginations  to  a  place 
beside  the  radiant  figures  of  Una  and  Britomart.  At  Kilcol- 
man,  lonely  no  longer,  Spenser  during  the  following  year 
finished  the  next  three  books  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  of  which  the 
heroes  are  the  Knight  of  Friendship,  the  Knight  of  Justice,  the 
Knight  of  Courtesy.  In  1595  he  came  to  England  to  see  after 
the  publication  of  these  books,  which  completed  the  first  half  of 
his  projected  work.  In  less  than  a  year  he  was  back  in  Ireland. 
He  took  up  the  life  which,  in  spite  of  some  hankerings  after 
the  splendour  of  the  Court,  and  the  cultured  society  which 
London  alone  could  afford,  he  really  loved  the  best.  Children 
152 


IP  THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 

were  born  to  him,  he  had  leisure  for  the  work  in  which  he 
delighted,  his  home  wa5  lovely  and  peaceful.  But  peace  in 
the  Ireland  of  that  time  was,  as  Spenser  well  knew,  an  insecure 
possession.  In  1598  a  new  rebelUon  broke  out.  The  rebels 
poured  from  their  fastness  on  Arlo  Hill  and  Kilcolman  was 
sacked  and  burnt.  Spenser  and  his  wife,  broken-hearted, 
escaped  to  Cork,  and  then  to  England.  A  few  months  later, 
January  16,  1599,  Spenser  died.  There  is  a  tradition,  founded 
on  a  statement  of  Ben  Jonson,  that  he  died  in  want.  '*  He 
died,"  said  Jonson,  "  for  lack  of  bread,  in  King  Street,  West- 
minster, and  refused  twenty  pieces  sent  to  him  by  my  I^ord 
of  Essex,  saying  that  he  had  no  time  to  spend  them."  But 
there  is  no  confirmation  of  this  statement,  and  it  seems  un- 
likely that  it  is  true.  Spenser  was  buried,  with  all  honour,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  near  the  grave  of  his  great  predecessor, 
Chaucer. 

We  do  not  know  how  much  more  of  his  great  work  was 
completed  before  his  death.  Perhaps  the  fire  at  Kilcolman 
robbed  us  of  many  cantos  we  might  otherwise  have  had. 
One  fragment  on  Mulabilitie,  supposed  to  be  part  of  the  book 
of  Constancy,  was  printed  with  the  other  six  books,  by  a 
bookseller,  in  1609,  but  where  it  came  from  we  do  not  know. 
The  work  remains  incomplete,  but  even  in  its  incompleteness 
it  suffices  to  give  Spenser  a  place  in  the  front  rank  of  our  poets. 


IS3 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE   PLAYS    OF   SHAKESPEARE 


THE  year  1564  was  of  all  years  the  most  important  for 
the    Elizabethan    drama.     In   the    stormy    days    of 
February  was  born  the  wild  and  unhappy  genius, 
Christopher  Marlowe  ;  and  when  gusty  March  had  passed  and 
the  rain  and  sunshine  of  April  had  made  the  earth  beautiful,  - 
there  came  into  it  another,  a  greater,  and  a  happier  genius,  | 
William  Shakespeare.     He  was  born  in  one  of  the  loveUest  '' 
districts  of  the  English  Midlands.    The  quiet  Avon  flowed 
through  it,  and  on  either  side  of  the  river  there  stretched,  in  I 
Shakespeare's  day,  wide,  rich  meadow-lands,  starry  and  fragrant  * 
with  "  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue,   and  lady-smocks  all  1 
silver- white."    Wild  flowers  grew  along  the  river  banks,  and  } 
in    every    shady    woodland    glade, — 'pale    primroses'    and  ] 
*  bold   oxlips,'   the   '  azured  harebell  *   and  the  '  lush  eglan-   • 
tine.'     To  the  north  lay  the  Forest  of  Arden,  then  really  a   : 
forest,  and  a  paradise  of  woodland  beauty.     If  there  was  nothing   ■ 
grand  or  wild  to  fire  the  imagination  there  was  everywhere  a    ' 
sweet  and  peaceful  loveliness  that  stirred  the  heart.  ^ 

On  the  left  bank  of  the  Avon,  just  where  the  old  Roman  ■', 
road  had  crossed  the  river  by  means  of  a  ford,  stood  the  little  ^ 
town  of  Stratford.  A  fine  stone  bridge,  which  is  still  standing,  ', 
had  replaced  the  ford,  and  the  grey  church — old  even  when  > 
Shakespeare  was  a  lad — stood  by  the  river  side.  Quaint  streets  \ 
of  dark-timbered  houses  made  up  the  little  town.  The  house  ^ 
in  Henley  Street,  where  Shakespeare  was  born  was  gabled  I 
and  picturesque,  like  its  neighbours,  with  small,  low-ceilinged  , 
rooms  and  heavy  oaken  beams.     John  Shakespeare,  the  poet's    ' 

154 


i 


THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

father,  had  been  living  there  for  twelve  years  at  the  time  of  his 
son's  birth.  He  was  a  trader  in  all  sorts  of  farm  produce, 
especially  in  wool,  leather  and  meat,  so  that  he  has  been 
variously  described  as  a  glover,  butcher,  and  farmer.  He 
belonged  to  an  old  yeoman  family  that  had  been  settled  in 
Warwickshire  for  many  generations.  He  was  a  busy  and 
prosperous  man,  standing  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow 
townsmen.  In  1565  he  became  an  alderman  of  Stratford, 
and  in  1568  reached  the  dignity  of  BaiHfE  or  Mayor. 

WilUam  Shakespeare  grew  up  in  a  comfortable  home,  well 
supphed  with  the  necessities  of  life,  and  probably  also  with 
such  luxuries  as  the  age  afforded.  He  grew  up  also  with  that 
sense  of  belonging  to  a  family  well  reputed  and  highly  esteemed, 
which  is  so  important  an  element  in  a  wholesome  and  stimulat- 
ing self-respect.  From  his  father  it  does  not  seem  likely  that 
he  received  very  much  help  or  guidance.  John  Shakespeare 
appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  well-meaning  but  ineffectual 
men,  of  restless  energy  and  short-sighted  optimism,  who  take 
up  with  enthusiasm  a  number  of  projects,  but  fail  to  make  a 
lasting  success  of  anything.  He  was  constantly  going  '  to 
law,'  and  it  is  probable  that  his  son  William  owes  the  know- 
ledge of  legal  procedure  and  legal  terms  which  has  led  some 
critics  to  declare  that  he  must  have  been  familiar  with  the  w^ork 
of  a  lawyer's  office,  to  the  conversations  which  he  heard  at 
home  about  his  father's  many  law  suits.  These,  however, 
during  his  early  boyhood,  were  mainly  concerned  with  the  re- 
covery of  small  debts,  and  did  not  affect  the  prosperity  of  the 
family.  John  Shakespeare's  position  in  the  town,  joined  with 
his  genial,  social  temper,  and  the  quiet,  high-bred  courtesy  of  his 
wife — she  was  of  gentle  birth,  and,  in  a  modest  way,  an  heiress 
— must  have  attracted  many  visitors  to  the  house  in  Henley 
Street,  and  made  it  a  centre  of  social  as  well  as  of  family  life. 

In  due  time,  as  we  believe,  WilHam  Shakespeare  went  to  the 
old  Grammar  School  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  Here  most  of  his 
time  was  spent  in  the  study  of  lyatin,  and  he  learnt  to  read  with 
a  fair  amount  of  facility  the  I^atin  authors  of  the  ordinary 
schoolboy.    I^illy's  I^atin  Grammar,  then  universally  used  in 


.ENGLISH    LITERATURE  f 

schools,  he  probably  knew  by  heart,  for  he  quotes  sentences  t 
from  it  in  Love\s  Labour's  Lost  and  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  | 
Windsor,  Sir  Hugh  Evans  {Merry  Wives),  the  pedantic  Holo-  j 
femes  (Love's  Labour's  Lost)  and  the  conjuring  schoolmaster  | 
Pinch  (Comedy  of  Errors)  probably  embody  many  of  Shake-  \ 
speare's  recollections  of  the  masters  who  taught  him  at  the  \ 
Stratford  Grammar  School.  ^ 

We  have  no  record  of  Shakespeare's  school-days,  nothing  to   i 
tell  us  whether  he  ranked  with  the  good  boys  or  with  the 
dunces,  no  hint  as  to  who  were  his  friends,  or,  most  important   : 
of  all,  how  he  occupied  himself  when  school  was  over.    Doubt-  \ 
less  he  played  with  the  other  boys  at  the  games  which  were  j 
popular  in  Elizabethan  days.     But  we  think  that  he  must  | 
have  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time  in  roaming  over  the  lovely  f 
country  which  lay  around  his  home,  learning  its  features  so  ( 
well  that  through  all  his  years  in  I^ondon  they  were  never 
forgotten ;    making  friends  with  all  the  shepherds,  pedlars, 
innkeepers,  village  constables,  sextons — even  with  the  beggars 
and  the  village  '  innocents  ' — to  be  found  in  the  countryside  ; 
listening  to  all  the  stories  they  could  be  induced  to  tell  him ; 
picking  up  local  traditions,  old  ballads,  proverbs,  and  folk 
tales ;    learning  the  homely,  racy,  expressive  English  which 
the  good  yeoman  of  the  Midlands  had  at  command.     We 
know  that  he  must  have  taken  a  keen  interest  in  the  field- 
sports  of   the  neighbourhood,    for  he  shows  in  his  plays  a 
familiar  acquaintance  with  hunting,  hawking  and  coursing, 
and  metaphors  drawn  from  them  are  common.    Yet  if  we 
may  judge  from  the  two  most  notable  references  in  his  works, 
his  sympathies  were  often  with  the  hunted,  not  with  the 
hunter.    He  noted  the  "  poor  sequestered  stag  That  from  the 
hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt,"  and  marked  how  "  the  big 
round  tears  Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose  In 
piteous  chase."    He  saw  the  hare,  "  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a 
hill.  Stand  on  his  hinder  legs  with  Hstening  ear.  To  hearken  if 
his  foes  pursue  him  still,"  and  he  speaks  with  sorrowful  pity  of 
the  **  dew-bedabbled  wretch,"  who  was  so  sorely  bested. 

By  the  time  WilUam  Shakespeare  was  ten  years  old  he  had 
IS6 


1.  Shakespeare's  Birthplace 

2.  Ann  Hathaway's  Cottage 


X56 


n 


THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

three  brothers  and  a  sister  for  playfellows  in  his  Henley  Street 
home.  But  the  old  easy  comfort  of  the  house  was  changing. 
The  father's  business  had  decHned  and  he  was  harassed  by 
want  of  money.  Debts  began  to  accumulate,  and  the  whisper 
went  round  the  town  that  the  once  prosperous  tradesman  was 
in  serious  difficulties.  John  Shakespeare  seems  to  have 
struggled  desperately  to  retrieve  his  position,  but  each  year  as 
it  passed  saw  him  in  a  more  hopeless  case.  Of  the  two  farms 
owned  by  his  wife  one  was  mortgaged  in  1578,  the  other  sold  in 
1579-  O^^  of  t^s  business  arose  a  vexatious  law-suit,  which 
helped  to  make  him  still  poorer.  In  1585  a  distraint  was 
ordered  upon  his  goods,  which  resulted  in  a  declaration  that  he 
possessed  no  goods  which  could  be  distrained  upon.  Next 
year  he  was  deprived  of  his  position  as  Alderman,  because  he 
"  doth  not  come  to  hall,  nor  hath  not  done  of  long  time." 
Poor  John  Shakespeare  1  Perhaps  he  was  afraid  to  venture 
out  of  his  own  home  for  fear  of  arrest ;  and  so,  with  all  his 
other  losses,  his  civic  dignity,  too,  departed  from  him. 

Long  before  this  time — in  1577  says  a  tradition,  to  which 
the  circumstances  of  the  case  give  strong  support — Shake- 
speare had  left  school.  He  was  the  eldest  son,  and  must  do 
what  he  could  to  help  the  family  in  those  evil  days.  How  he 
spent  the  next  few  years  we  do  not  know.  One  biographer 
says  that  he  "  exercised  his  father's  trade  "  of  butcher,  and 
adds,  "  but  when  he  kill'd  a  calf,  he  would  doe  it  in  a  high  style 
and  make  a  speech."  We  may  perhaps  infer  from  this  that 
t>y  1577  John  Shakespeare  had  given  up,  one  by  one,  the  other 
branches  of  trade  which  he  had  formerly  carried  on,  and  was 
now  struggUng  to  make  a  Uving  as  a  butcher.  We  can  imagine 
how  uncongenial  such  a  life  must  have  been  to  his  son,  who, 
however,  does  not  seem  to  have  made  any  very  determined 
effort  to  escape  from  it.  The  few  slight  notices  we  can  gather 
of  his  life  at  this  time,  seem  to  show  him  as  an  idler,  seeking 
abroad  some  relief  from  the  harshness  of  his  home  circumstances. 
In  1582,  when  he  was  only  eighteen  years  old,  and  when  his 
father's  difficulties  were  at  an  acute  stage,  he  married.  His 
wife  was  Ann  Hathaway,   daughter  of   a   husbandman  of 

^7 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Shottery,  a  small  hamlet  separated  by  a  few  fields  from  the 
town  of  Stratford.  Even  this  new  responsibility  does  not 
seem  to  have  roused  Shakespeare  to  any  great  effort.  How 
the  young  couple  lived  for  the  next  few  years  it  is  hard  to 
imagine.  Ann  Hathaway  had  inherited  a  little  money  from 
her  father,  and  Shakespeare  perhaps,  managed  to  find  some 
sort  of  occupation ;  tradition  says  that  he  became  a  school- 
master. In  1583  a  daughter  was  born  to  him,  and  in  1585 
a  twin  son  and  daughter. 

By  this  time,  it  would  seem,  the  better  mind  of  William 
Shakespeare  was  coming  back  to  him.  He  had  allowed  him- 
self to  become  disheartened  by  the  unfavourable  circumstances 
of  his  life,  had  drifted  along  without  any  set  purpose,  and  had 
yielded  easily  to  the  temptations  that  came  in  his  way.  Now 
the  resolution  that  had  so  much  influence  on  his  after  career 
was  slowly  forming  in  his  mind — the  resolution  to  mend  his 
father's  broken  fortunes,  to  make  the  name  of  Shakespeare 
respected  once  more  in  Stratford-on-Avon,  to  give  his  family 
a  happy  prosperous  home  in  his  native  place.  The  careless, 
happy-tempered  lad  whose  good  looks  and  frank  manners  had 
gained  for  him  many  friends  in  whose  company  it  was  so  easy 
and  pleasant  to  be  idle,  was  soon  to  develop  into  the  brave- 
hearted  strenuous  worker  who,  from  the  humblest  beginning, 
rose  by  his  own  exertions  to  fame  and  fortune. 

The  crisis  came  through  an  incident  which  made  Shake- 
speare's departure  from  Stratford  a  necessity.  "  He  had,"  wrote 
Nicholas  Rowe,  his  first  biographer,  "  by  a  misfortune  common 
enough  to  young  fellows,  fallen  into  ill  company,  and  among 
them,  some  that  made  a  frequent  practice  of  deer-stalking, 
engaged  him  with  them  more  than  once  in  robbing  a  park  that 
belonged  to  Sir  Thomas  lyucy,  of  Charlecote,  near  Stratford. 
For  this  he  was  prosecuted  by  that  gentleman,  as  he  thought, 
somewhat  too  severely ;  and,  in  order  to  revenge  that  Ul- 
usage,  he  made  a  ballad  upon  him,  and  though  this,  probably 
the  first  essay  of  his  poetry,  be  lost,  .yet  it  is  said  to  have 
been  so  very  bitter  that  it  redoubled  the  prosecution  against 
him  to  that  degree  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  business 

158 


HE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

family  in  Warwickshire  and  shelter  himself  in  lyondon."  It 
IS  even  been  said  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  caused  him  to  be 
whipped.  The  story,  probably,  is  not  correct  in  all  its  details, 
but  various  small  pieces  of  evidence  now  available  seem  to 
show  that  Shakespeare  really  was  involved  in  a  poaching  affray 
on  Sir  Thomas  I^ucy's  ground.  Six  or  seven  years  after, 
when  he  was  writing  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  he  recalled 
this  incident.  But  all  bitterness  of  feeling  had  long  since 
passed  away,  and  he  contented  himself  with  holding  up  his 
old  enemy  to  the  ridicule  of  his  own  and  succeeding  ages  as  the 
immortal  Justice  Shallow  with  the  "  dozen  white  luces  in  his 
coat." 

II 

By  1586  or  1587  Shakespeare,  we  believe,  was  in  London, 

unknown  and  nearly  penniless.    One  friend  he  had — Richard 

Field,  a  Stratford  man,  son  of  a  friend  of  Shakespeare's  father. 

We  beheve  that  Field  did  his  best  for  his  young  townsman,  but 

he  could  give  him  little  help  in  the  matter  that  had  brought 

him  to  lyondon.     WiUiam  Shakespeare  must  make  his  way  for 

himself.     Nothing  daunted,  he  set  to  work.     From  the  first  he 

seems  to  have  turned  to  the  theatres  as  the  best  means  of 

enabhng  him  to  gain  a  livelihood.     He  brought  from  Stratford 

many  memories  of  the  players  who  had  from  time  to  time 

visited  the  town,  and  of  the  pageants  and  shows  which  the 

taste  of  the  age  had  caused  to  become  common  throughout  the 

country.     He  had,  perhaps,  witnessed  the  historic  revels  at 

Kenilworth  in  1575,  for  Kenilworth  was  only  fifteen  miles  from 

Stratford,  and  Shakespeare's  father  might  well  have  ridden 

over  with  his  son  on  such  a  famous  occasion.     Like  many  other 

young  men,  he  had,  perhaps,  dreamt  of  the  stage  as  providing 

him  with  the  opportunity  of  a  glorious  and  triumphant  career. 

But  the  road  by  which  he  approached  the  object  of  his  desire 

was  a  very  humble  one.     He  seems  to  have  hung  about  the 

doors  of  the  theatres  waiting  for  chance  employment,  for  a 

tradition  of  the  time  tells  us  that  he  gained  a  meagre  Hving  by 

holding  the  horses  of  gentleman  who  came  to  the  play.    Very 

IS9 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

soon  he  was  noticed  by  the  authorities  of  the  theatre,  and  was 
**  received  into  the  company  then  in  being,  at  first  in  a  very 
mean  rank."  So  says  Nicholas  Rowe,  and  there  is  a  stage 
tradition  that  Shakespeare's  first  employment  was  that  of 
call-boy.  Whatever  it  was  he  had  to  do,  he  did  it  well,  and 
made  himself  so  useful  and  notable,  either  by  his  suggestions 
or  by  help  given  in  emergencies,  that  he  was  quickly  advanced. 
By  1594  he  was  a  member  of  the  lyord  Chamberlain's  Company 
of  players,  and  was  of  some  note  as  an  actor. 

All  this  time — the  years,  be  it  remembered,  which  preceded 
and  followed  the  coming  of  the  Armada — Shakespeare  was 
probably  living  poorly  enough — lodging  in  an  attic  in  an 
obscure  and  dirty  street,  dining  at  tavern  ordinaries,  put  to  all 
kinds  of  shifts,  and  suffering  many  hardships.     But  he  suffered  j 
them  in  a  gay  and  gallant  spirit,  and  he  turned  with  an  eager  | 
zest  to  the  compensations  which  life  in  Elizabethan  I^ondon  | 
offered.     There   were   the   great   thoroughfares   of   the   City  J 
where  on  any  holiday  one  might  see  some  splendid  pageant  or  * 
gorgeous  procession,  and  where,  even  on  working  days,  there  | 
were  life  and  colour  enough  to  delight  a  poet.    There  were  the  ' 
bookstalls  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  with  their  "  innumerable  i 
sorts  of  English  books  and  infinite  fardels  of  printed  pamphlets,  *  *   1 
and  even  a  poor  actor  might  sometimes  spare  the  pence  which 
would  buy  one  of  the  new  fashioned  '  novellas '  or  a  transla- 
tion of  some  old  classic.     Perhaps  it  was  at  one  of  these  book-  ' 
stalls    that    Shakespeare    bought    the    copy    of    HoHnshed's  i 
Chronicle,  and  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  which  we  think  he  certainly 
possessed.     In  the  atidiences  that  gathered  at  the  theatres,  too,  I 
he  must  have  found  much  that  both  interested  and  delighted  1 
him.    All  classes  of  society  were  represented,  from  the  splendid  : 
court  gallant  who  sat  upon  the  stage,  to  the  pickpocket  who 
quietly  plied  his  trade  among  the  crowd  of  poor  and  ragged  | 
citizens  that  pushed  and  struggled  for  standing  room  in  the 
pit — a  large  space,  without  flooring  or  seats,  in  the  middle  ^ 
of  the  theatre.     For  companions  Shakespeare  had  his  fellow  \ 
actors,  with  several  of  whom  he  formed  lifelong  friendships.        | 

We  do  not  know  what  relations  existed  between  Shakespeare  j 

160  ! 


William  Shakespeare 
From  the  Chandos  Portrait) 


i6o 


1 

H 


I 


THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

and  the  '  University  Wits.'  He  did  not,  it  would  seem,  join 
in  their  riotous  Hving,  but  he  probably  met  them  in  the  theatres 
and  the  taverns  of  the  town.  It  is  abundantly  evident  that 
he  felt  a  real  admiration  for  Marlowe,  and  strove,  in  his  early 
works,  to  copy  his  great  predecessor,  whom  he  looked  upon  as 
his  master  in  dramatic  art ;  but  we  have  no  conclusive  evi- 
dence that  in  the  seven  years  during  which  they  were  both 
Uving  and  working  in  I^ndon,  the  two  poets  ever  met.  Robert 
Greene,  we  know,  was  bitterly  jealous  of  Shakespeare.  In  the 
Groatsworth  of  Wit  Greene  says,  "  There  is  an  upstart  Crow, 
beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with  his  Tyger's  heart  wrappt 
in  a  players  hide  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bumbast  out  a 
blanke  verse  as  the  best  of  you ;  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes 
factotum  is,  in  his  owne  conceit,  the  only  Shakescene  in  a 
countrie." 

This  attack  by  Greene  is  valuable  in  many  ways.  It  is 
a  distinct  reference  to  Shakespeare  and  proves  that,  by  1592, 
he  had  made  for  himself  some  reputation  not  only  as  an  actor 
but  as  a  playwright.  The  words  "  Tyger's  heart  wrappt  in  a 
players  hide  "  are  a  parody  of  a  Hne  in  the  third  part  of  Henry 
VI,  and  show  that  this  play  was  written  before  1592.  The 
accusation  that  Shakespeare  had  taken  the  credit  for  work  that 
really  belonged  to  Greene  and  his  friends,  points  to  the  fact  that 
Shakespeare  began  his  career  as  a  dramatist  in  the  ordinary 
way — ^by  furbishing  up  old  plays.  In  those  days  plays  were 
sold  outright  to  the  managers  of  theatres,  and,  as  occasion 
required,  the  staff  of  the  theatre  was  employed  to  touch  up  or 
add  to  any  play  so  as  to  make  it  more  acceptable  to  the  changing 
taste  of  the  pubHc.  Shakespeare  had  probably  been  employed 
in  this  way  on  a  play  called  Henry  VI,  which,  on  March  3, 1592, 
was  acted  at  the  Rose  Theatre.  The  author  of  the  original 
play  we  do  not  know.  It  was  probably  one  of  a  large  number 
written  to  minister  to  the  patriotic  feelings  which  were  upper- 
most in  men's  minds  diiring  the  years  which  followed  England's 
great  victory  over  Spain.  Needy  dramatists  took  the  work 
of  the  old  chroniclers,  and  seizing  upon  likely  dramatic  passages, 
hastily  turned  them  into  rough  plays  which  would  satisfy  the 

L  161 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ^ 

demand  of  the  playgoers,  and  fill  the  theatre.  It  is  not  un-  \ 
likely  that  Greene  and  Marlowe,  and  perhaps  Peele,  had  joined  j 
in  producing  the  old  play  which  Shakespeare  revised.  j 

Henry  VI  was  received  with  enthusiasm.  "  How  would  it  ' 
have  joyed  brave  Talbot  (the  terror  of  the  French),"  wrote  ' 
Nash,  "  to  thinke  that  after  he  had  lyne  two  hundred  yeares  in  , 
his  Tombe,  hee  should  triumphe  againe  on  the  Stage,  and  have  I 
his  bones  newe  embalmed  with  the  teares  of  ten  thousand 
spectators  at  least  (at  severall  times)  who,  in  the  Tragedian  that  , 
represents  his  person,  imagine  they  behold  him  fresh  bleeding  !  "  : 

Very  soon  afterward  appeared  another  play,  continuing  the  \ 
historical  narrative — "  The  First  Part  of  the  Contention  be-  : 
twixt  the  two  famous  houses  of  York  and  I^ancaster  "  ;   and  i 
in  1593  came  still  another  continuation  under  the  name  of  | 
"  The  True  Tragedie  of  Richard,  Duke  of  Yorke,  and  the  death 
of  good  King  Henry  the  Sixt,  as  it  was  sundrie  times  acted 
by  the  Karl  of  Pembroke  his  servants."    All  three  were  after-  | 
ward  again  thoroughly  revised  by  Shakespeare.    How  much  I 
of  these  plays,  as  we  now  have  them,  was  written  by  him  we  i 
do  not  know.     Critics  allot  to  him  only  a  small  part  of  Henry 
VI ;    of  the  second  play  it  is  agreed  that  the  larger  part  is  ' 
his ;    of  the  third,  less  than  a  half.     The  three  plays  were  j 
published,   after  Shakespeare's  death,   as   the   first,   second  j 
and  third  parts  of  Henry  VI.  ' 

It  is  almost  certain  that  at  least  in  a  part  of  the  work  of 
revision,  Shakespeare  was  helped  by  some  other  dramatist, 
and  critics  are  incUned  to  think  that  this  helper  was  Christopher 
Marlowe.  Marlowe  died  June  i,  1593,  possibly  before  the 
revision  was  completed,  but  some  Hues  in  the  first  two  plays  are 
so  distinctly  in  his  vein  that  it  is  difiicult  to  believe  he  did  not 
write  them  (e.g.  II  Hy.  VI ;  IV,  i.  i-ii). 

So  began  the  series  of  Chronicle  plays  which  was  continued 
in  Richard  III,  Richard  II,  King  John,  Henry  IV,  and  Henry  V, 
all  probably  written  before  1599. 

During  this  early  period  of  dramatic  authorship  Shakespeare 
wrote  also  a  series  of  light  and  mirthful  comedies — Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
162 


THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

Verona,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream — all  of  which  show  more 
or  less  the  influence  of  John  I^yly  ;  one  tragedy — Romeo  and 
Juliet — also  belongs  to  this  period. 


Ill 

All  this  time  Shakespeare's  reputation  as  a  poet,  playwright, 
and  actor  had  been  steadily  rising.  He  began  to  be  known  at 
the  court.  Twice  he  acted  before  Elizabeth  during  the  Christ- 
mas season  1594.  He  was  fortunate  enough  to  gain  the  good- 
will of  the  Karl  of  Southampton,  one  of  the  most  magnificent 
of  the  young  gallants  who  made  the  Court  of  Elizabeth  splendid. 
Southampton  was  a  munificent  patron  of  letters,  and  to 
Shakespeare  he  showed  not  only  kindness,  but  real  friendship. 
The  poet  on  his  part  felt  a  warm  and  affectionate  attachment 
to  his  young  patron.  To  Southampton  he  dedicated  Venus 
and  Adonis  and  Lucrece,  two  poems  published  in  1593  and 
1594  respectively,  and  it  is  almost  certain  that  the  '  fair 
friend  '  on  whom  in  his  Sonnets  he  lavishes  such  loving  praise, 
is  Southampton  also. 

Sir  Sidney  Lee  calculates  that  in  the  years  immediately  pre- 
ceding 1599  Shakespeare's  income  was  over  £130,  that  is  about 
£1040  of  our  present  money.  His  easier  circumstances  made 
it  possible  for  him  to  pay  longer  and  more  frequent  visits  to 
Stratford-on-Avon,  and  to  take  the  first  steps  in  carrying  out 
the  purpose  which,  through  all  these  years,  he  had  kept  steadily 
before  him.  John  Shakespeare  was  in  even  worse  difficulties 
than  he  had  been  at  the  time  of  his  son  leaving  Stratford,  and  he 
and  his  wife  shared  with  Shakespeare's  wife  and  children  the 
prosperity  which  the  years  in  London  had  brought. 

In  1596  Shakespeare's  only  son,  Hamnet,  died.  This  must 
have  been  a  terrible  blow  both  to  Shakespeare's  affections  and 
to  his  ambition  of  founding  a  family  in  his  native  place.  It 
has  been  conjectured  that  Prince  Arthur  in  King  John  was 
drawn  from  this  son,  of  whom,  otherwise,  we  know  nothing. 
But  in  spite  of  this  loss,  he  persevered  in  his  intention.  In  1597 
he  bought  New  Place,  the  largest  and  most  important  dwelhng- 

163 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

house  in  Stratford,  for  £60,  or  £480  of  our  present  money.  It 
was  in  an  almost  ruinous  condition,  and  for  some  years  Shake- 
speare did  not  inhabit  it,  but  occupied  himself  in  restoring  and 
beautifying  the  house,  in  building  new  barns,  and  in  buying, 
as  opportunity  occurred,  adjacent  lands  to  enlarge  and  enrich 
his  domain.  From  this  time  onward  he  spent  a  considerable 
part  of  each  year  in  his  native  town. 

Shakespeare  had  now  passed  through  the  early  experi- 
mental stages,  during  which  he  was  learning  his  art  from  the  , 
work  of  other  dramatists  and  from  the  actual  business  of  the 
theatre.  The  year  1598  saw  the  completion  of  the  series  of  j 
historical  plays ;  and  during  the  next  two  years  Shakespeare  j 
wrote  his  three  most  perfect  comedies — Much  Ado  About  ^ 
Nothing,  As  You  Like  It,  and  Twelfth  Night.  It  is  difficult  to  i 
select  from  this  trio  one  play  which  has  a  special  claim  to  con-  ] 
sideration,  but  As  You  Like  It  perhaps  illustrates  more  clearly  ' 
than  either  of  the  others  some  of  Shakespeare's  characteristic  j 
quaUties  and  methods,  and  we  will  therefore  briefly  review  that. 
In  1590  was  pubUshed  a  novel  by  Thomas  I^odge,  called  ■ 
Rosalynde,  Euphues  Golden  Legacy,  Rosalynde  was  to  some  ' 
extent  founded  upon  an  older  story,  The  Cook's  Tale  ofGamelyn,  1 
which  has  been  wrongly  attributed  to  Chaucer,  and  included  ] 
in  some  editions  of  The  Canterbury  Tales.  On  this  novel  i 
Shakespeare  founded  his  play  oi  As  You  Like  It,  though  he  ; 
made  many  alterations,  introduced  several  new  characters,  \ 
and  transformed  the  whole  tone  and  spirit  of  the  earlier  work.  \ 
It  is  the  finest  example  of  Shakespeare's  *  open  air  '  comedies.  ; 
In  Love's  Labour's  Lost  we  are  taken  to  the  park  of  the  King  of  ; 
Navarre,  we  catch  sight  of  the  royal  hunting-party  and  stand  : 
under  the  cool  shade  of  the  sycamore-trees.  But  the  men  and  ; 
women  we  meet  are  of  the  court,  and  they  speak  the  artificial  \ 
language  of  Euphues ;  the  wit  sparkles  so  brilliantly  below 
that  we  forget  to  look  up  and  see  the  bright  sun  above.  In  ■ 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  we  spend  a  summer  night  in  an  ; 
enchanted  wood,  where  '  faint  primrose  beds '  and  banks  of  I 
wild  thyme  shine  under  the  white  radiance  of  a  magic  moon.  • 
But  even  here,  altogether  delightful  as  the  atmosphere  is,  there  ; 
164  i 


IP 


THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

is  a  feeling  of  seclusion,  and  we  know  that  we  could  never  find 
our  way  to  that  forest  by  the  light  of  the  everyday  sun.  In 
As  You  Like  It  we  are  in  the  veritable  Forest  of  Arden  that 
Shakespeare  knew  and  loved ;  the  free  winds  blow  over  us, 
sometimes  keen  and  biting,  but  always  healthful,  the  noon- 
day sun  shines  with  fullest  Hght,  the  common  sounds  of  wood- 
land life  are  in  our  ears.  Professor  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  in 
a  striking  passage,  has  pointed  out  with  what  wonderful 
skill  these  effects  are  gained.  "  A  minute  examination  of  the 
play  has  given  a  curious  result.  No  single  bird,  or  insect,  or 
flower,  is  mentioned  by  name.  The  words  '  flower  '  and  '  leaf  ' 
do  not  occur.  The  trees  of  the  forest  are  the  oak,  the  hawthorn, 
the  palm-tree,  and  the  olive.  For  animals,  there  are  the  deer, 
one  lioness,  and  one  green  and  gilded  snake.  The  season  is 
not  easy  to  determine ;  perhaps  it  is  summer ;  we  hear  only 
of  the  biting  cold  and  the  wintry  wind.  *  But  these  are  all 
lies,*  as  RosaUnd  would  say,  and  the  dramatic  truth  has  been 
expressed  by  those  critics  who  speak  of  '  the  leafy  soHtudes 
sweet  with  the  song  of  birds.'  It  is  nothing  to  the  outlaws 
that  their  forest  is  poorly  furnished  with  stage-properties ; 
they  fleet  the  time  carelessly  in  a  paradise  of  gaiety  and 
indolence,  and  there  is  summer  in  their  hearts.  So  Shakespeare 
attains  his  end  without  the  bathos  of  an  allusion  to  the  soft 
green  grass,  which  must  needs  have  been  represented  by  the 
boards  of  the  theatre."  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  in 
Shakespeare's  day  no  scenery  of  effects  were  used.  "  You 
shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Africke  of  the  other," 
wrote  Sir  PhiUp  Sidney,  "  and  so  many  other  under-kingdomes, 
that  the  Plaier  when  hee  comes  in  must  ever  begin  with  telling 
where  hee  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  shall 
you  have  three  I^adies  walke  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we 
must  beleeve  the  stage  to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by  wee  heare 
newes  of  shipwracke  in  the  same  place,  then  wee  are  to  blame 
if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  rocke ;  .  .  .  while  in  the  meantime 
two  armies  flie  in,  represented  with  f oure  swordes  and  bucklers, 
and  then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field." 
Rosalind,  the  heroine,  takes  her  place  among  the  company  of 

165 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

girl-characters  which  is  one  of  the  notable  glories  of  Shake 
speare's  works.  Like  her  namesake  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost 
and  like  Beatrice  in  Much  Ado,  she  is  high-spirited  and  mischief- 
loving  ;  like  them,  too,  she  has  a  sharp  edge  to  her  tongue,  and 
can  hold  her  own  in  a  combat  of  wit  with  any  opponent. 
But  she  is  not  quite  so  brilUant  as  these  others,  a  shade  softer, 
and  just  a  trifle  sweeter.  She  is  younger  and  more  girlish ; 
there  are  touches  which  seem  to  indicate  that  she  has  not 
long  left  the  '  tomboy  '  stage  of  childhood  behind  her.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  Shakespeare  studied  his  girl-heroines 
from  his  own  daughter,  Judith.  In  1599,  when,  as  we  believe, 
Shakespeare  paid  his  first  long  visit  to  Stratford,  Judith  was 
about  sixteen,  a  fresh,  bright,  country  girl  with  a  share  of  her 
father's  wit,  and  a  share  of  his  good  looks.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  Shakespeare  was  captivated  by  the  graces  of  his  own 
daughter,  and  that  Judith  found  in  her  famous  father  a  play- 
fellow beyond  all  her  previous  imaginings.  So  that  Rosalind, 
daughter  of  a  banished  Duke,  who  sought  her  father  in  the 
French  forest,  may  be  really  Judith,  daughter  of  WilUam 
Shakespeare,  who,  in  theffingUsh  forest  by  the  River  Avon, 
showed  her  father  how  sweet  and  bright  and  lovable  a  girl 
heroine  should  be. 

An  additional  interest  is  given  to  As  You  Like  It  by  the 
probability  that  Shakespeare  himself  took  the  part  of  Adam 
when  the  play  was  first  produced.  Oldys  (an  early  biographer 
of  Shakespeare)  says  that  a  younger  brother  of  the  poet, 
who  was  alive  after  the  Restoration,  used  in  his  old  age  to 
speak  of  how  he  had  often  come  up  to  London  to  see  his  brother 
act.  Naturally,  he  was  closely  and  eagerly  questioned. 
"  But  all  that  could  be  recollected  from  him  of  his  brother  Will 
in  that  station  was  the  faint,  general  and  almost  lost  ideas  he 
had  of  having  once  seen  him  act  a  part  in  one  of  his  own 
comedies,  wherein,  being  to  personate  a  decrepit  old  man,  he 
wore  a  long  beard,  and  appeared  so  weak  and  drooping  and 
unable  to  walk,  that  he  was  forced  to  be  supported  and  carried 
by  another  person  to  a  table,  at  which  he  was  seated  among 
some  company,  who  were  eating,  and  one  of  them  sung  a  song." 
166 


IfrHE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

(To  this  period  also  belong  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,  Measure  for  Measure,  Troilus  and  Cressida 
and  Julius  Ccesar.) 

IV 

The  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  marks,  roughly  speaking,  a 
turning-point  in  Shakespeare's  career.  He  had  by  this  time 
attained  the  object  of  his  early  ambition.  He  had  made  for 
himself  a  name  and  position  in  his  native  town ;  he  was  no 
longer  young  Will  Shakespeare,  the  idle,  poaching  son  of  the 
ruined  butcher,  but  the  wealthy  Mr.  William  Shakespeare, 
gentleman,  of  New  Place,  who  had  made  the  name  of  Stratford 
famous  even  in  far-off  London.  He  had  estabUshed  his  family 
honourably  in  the  comfortable  house  he  had  bought  and 
restored.  He  was  able  to  make  easy  the  last  days  of  his 
father,  who  died  in  1601,  and  to  provide  a  home  for  his  mother 
in  the  old  house  in  Henley  Street,  until  she  too  died,  in  1608. 

In  London  Shakespeare  was  admired  and  respected.  He 
was  a  popular  actor  and  a  noted  playwright.  The  new 
Globe  Theatre,  which  had  been  built  on  the  Bankside,  South- 
wark,  in  1599,  was  largely  under  his  management,  and  he  drew 
a  considerable  share  of  the  profits  which  were  made  in  it.  He 
was  high  in  the  favour  of  James  I  as  he  had  been  in  that  of 
Elizabeth.  His  life  was,  apparently,  cheerful  and  sociable  ; 
his  company  was  sought  after  by  men  of  all  ranks.  Tradition 
says  that  he  was  the  centre  of  the  brilUant  group  that  assembled 
at  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  Bread  Street,  where  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  had  established  a  kind  of  club  for  literary  men,  and  of 
which  Beaumont  writes  in  his  well-known  lines 

What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mennaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame. 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest. 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  Ufe. 

But  as  we  pass  on  to  the  examination  of  the  plays  that 
Shakespeare  produced  in  the  early  years  of  the  new  century  all 

167 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

this  brightness  of  prosperity  disappears,  and  we  are  aware  of  a 
black  cloud  into  which  our  poet  has  entered.  It  is  not  a  cloud 
that  dimmed  his  genius,  for  some  of  his  most  wonderful  works 
were  written  while  it  overshadowed  him.  It  is  a  cloud  which, 
for  a  time,  hid  from  him  the  bright  face  of  heaven,  and  all  the 
simple,  beautiful  and  joyous  things  in  which  his  nature  had 
delighted.  It  made  the  earth  a  dark,  unhappy  place,  where 
men  walked  bHndly,  oppressed  by  the  awful  and  mysterious 
dispensations  of  a  terrible  God.  Perhaps  some  great  sorrow 
of  which  we  know  nothing  came  to  Shakespeare  at  this  time  ; 
perhaps  the  change  we  notice  in  him  is  simply  due  to  the 
necessity  imposed  upon  a  soul  such  as  his  of  entering  into  all 
the  deep  and  dark  places  of  human  nature.  He  may  have 
suffered  in  an  attempt  to  consider,  if  not  to  solve,  the  terrible 
problems  which  present  themselves  to  every  thoughtful  man  and 
woman  on  the  way  through  life.  However  this  may  be,  all  the 
plays  written  between  1602  and  1608  show  an  ever-increasing 
sense  of  the  strength  of  the  powers  of  evil  in  the  world,  of  dark 
depths  of  sin  and  sorrow  toward  which  man,  thoughtlessly 
or  bhndly,  advances. 

'■  The  four  great  tragedies — Hamlet,  Othello,  King  Lear, 
Macbeth — written  between  1602  and  1606 — give  the  fullest 
expression  to  the  thoughts  which  seem  to  have  possessed 
Shakespeare's  mind  at  this  period.  In  King  Lear,  for  example, 
there  is  depicted  an  agony  so  stupendous  and  heart-breaking 
that  to  contemplate  it  calmly  is  almost  an  impossibility. 
Dr.  Johnson  is  among  those  who  have  acknowledged  that  they 
have  shrunk  in  dread  from  reading  or  witnessing  the  play  a 
second  time,  so  deep  and  awful  is  the  impression  which  the 
sufferings  of  the  poor  mad  king  have  made  upon  them.  It  is 
illuminating  to  note  the  basis  on  which  Shakespeare  builds 
up  this,  his  most  heartrending  tragedy.  There  is  no  fearful 
national  convulsion,  no  devastating  war,  no  deeply  laid  plot. 
The  rending  of  natural,  human  ties,  the  rejection  of  natural, 
human  duties — from  these  apparently  small  beginnings  the 
great  agony  proceeds. 

Yet  we  are  shown  the  other  side  also.     If  Shakespeare 
l68 


IP 

THE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

makes  us  shudder  at  the  realization  that  the  utter  disregard 
of  filial  obUgations  may  tend  to  produce  fiends  such  as  Regan 
and  Goneril,  he  uplifts  us,  too,  by  reminding  us  that  the 
simple,  loving  fulfilment  of  a  daughter's  duty  suffices  to  make 
a  heroine.  A  stem  sense  of  the  compulsion  laid  upon  a  man 
to  do  the  plain  duty  appointed  for  him  and  not  evade  it  on 
any  pretext,  however  specious,  constrains  Shakespeare  in  his 
creation  of  I/car  ;  but  it  constrains  him  also  in  his  creation  of 
Kent  and  Edmund  and  the  poor,  faithful  fool.  The  cloud  was 
thick  and  black,  but  Shakespeare  never  lost  his  faith  that 
somewhere  behind  it  there  was  still  a  sun  in  the  heavens  ;  and 
soon  the  sun  shone  through  the  clouds,  and  made  a  glorious 
ending  to  the  poet's  splendid,  though  not  unclouded  day. 

The  last  years  of  Shakespeare's  life  were  spent  mainly  at 
Stratford.  His  wife  and  his  daughter  Judith  were  with  him 
at  New  Place.  His  elder  daughter,  Susannah,  had,  in  1607, 
married  John  Hall,  a  somewhat  famous  doctor  of  medicine, 
and  there  was  a  Httle  daughter  now  in  their  home.  Friends 
from  I^ondon  came  occasionally  to  Stratford  to  visit  Shake- 
speare in  his  retirement.  His  actor  friends — Richard  Burbage, 
who  had  taken  the  part  of  the  hero  in  almost  all  the  Shake- 
peare's  tragedies,  Heminge  and  Condell,  who  were  his  literary 
executors  and  edited  the  folio  edition  of  his  works  after  his 
death — these  came  many  times.  The  poets,  Ben  Jonson  and 
Michael  Drayton,  came  at  least  once.  In  this  happy  retire- 
ment the  great  moral  problems  of  the  world  ceased  to  oppress 
Shakespeare's  mind.  He  had  passed  through  his  season  of 
doubt  and  stress.  He  had  met  his  difficulties  bravely,  not 
weakly  shrinking  from  the  pain  that  the  encounter  involved, 
or  thrusting  unwelcome  questions  aside  to  be  dealt  with  at  a 
more  convenient  season.  He  had  won,  through  struggle,  to 
peace. 

In  these  last  years  he  wrote  three  dramas — The  Winter's  Tale, 
Cymbeline,  and  The  Tempest — ^which  it  is  difficult  to  classify. 
They  are  comedies  in  that  they  end  happily,  but  they  have 
not  the  mirthful  comedy  spirit ;  they  are  full  of  a  radiant 
loveliness  which  transfigures  and  etherealizes  them  without 

169 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  . 

taking  away  from  their  warm  living  interest.    The  title  of 
'  romance '  has  been  given  to  these  plays  to  distinguish  them  ! 
from  the  earlier  comedies.  I 

The  difference  between  the  romances  and  the  comedies  may  , 
be  illustrated  by  a  comparison  of  the  heroine  of  each.     Perdita, 
Imogen  and  Miranda  stand  apart.    There  has  been  nothing  i 
like  them  in  any  of  the  previous  plays.    They  are  neither 
brilHant  nor  witty,  they  have  none  of  the  charming  airs  and  , 
graces   that   delight   us   in   Shakespeare's   earlier   creations.  ' 
They  are  sweet,  lovable,  loving  girls,  of  an  exquisite  purity  | 
and  rare  beauty  of  character  that,  in  some  wonderful  way 
is  shown  in  their  every  word  and  action.     It  is  perhaps  not  | 
too  fanciful  to  see  Judith  Shakespeare  once  more  as  her  I 
father's  model.    He  has  learnt  now  that  there  is  more  in  his 
daughter   than  the  high  spirits   and  the  grace   which  first : 
charmed  him ;    he  has  learnt  to  reverence  girlhood  in  her ' 
person,  and  to  spend  all  his  creative  skill  in  doing  it  honour.     ) 

The  last  play  that  Shakespeare  wrote  was,  as  we  suppose, 
The  Tempest,  and  with  this  he  crowned  all  his  previous  achieve- ; 
ments.    Dainty  Ariel  is  the  Puck  of  Midsummer  Night* s  Dream 
etherealized  and  glorified  by  the  /  deHcate  air  '  of  the  enchanted  , 
island.    The  whole  play  is,  like  the  island,  full  of  "  sounds  and  | 
sweet  airs  that  give  deUght  and  hurt  not."    In  Prospero  it  is  j 
inevitable  that  we  should  see  some  shadow  of  the  writer  of 
the  play.    Shakespeare  himself,  one  cannot  help  thinking, ! 
meant  to  signify  an  intention  of  bringing  his  work  as  a  dramatist  | 
to  a  close  when  he  wrote  the  words  | 

I'll  break  my  staff,  ■ 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  soimd 
I'll  drown  my  book.  j 

'  This  was  his  farewell,  and  though  he  lived  some  six  years  i 
longer,  he  wrote  no  more.  He  died  on  April  23,  1616,  at  the ; 
age  of  fifty-two,  and  was  buried  in  the  chancel  of  Stratford , 
Church.  \ 

[During  Shakespeare's  lifetime  sixteen  of  his  plays  had  been  1 
170  j 


w 


O    (U 

e 


at 

V 
Cl, 
M 
4) 


HE    PLAYS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

iblished  in  quarto,  at  sixpence  each.  In  1623  John  Heminge 
id  Henry  Condell,  assisted  by  various  printers  and  pub- 
lers,  brought  out  the  first  complete  edition  of  his  works,  of 
which  about  a  hundred  and  forty  copies  are  known  to  be  still 
in  existence.     This  edition  is  now  known  as  the  First  Folio.] 


171 


I 


CHAPTER  XIX 
ENGLAND'S    HELICON 

HEUCON,  we  are  told,  was  a  mountain  in  Boeotia,  in 
Greece,  sacred  to  Apollo  and  the  Muses ;  on  it  were 
situated  the  fountains  Hippocrene  and  Aganippe,  the 
grand  sources  of  poetic  inspiration.  One  is  inclined  to  believe 
that,  during  the  Elizabethan  age,  this  mountain  was,  by  art  or 
magic,  transported  to  the  realms  of  England ;  and  that  the 
man,  whoever  he  might  be,  who  gave  the  title  of  England's 
Helicon  to  the  collection  of  verse  pubHshed  in  1600,  was 
attempting  no  fanciful  piece  of  symboUsm,  but  was  making 
open  reference  to  a  well-known  fact.  It  is  difficult  to  account, 
except  on  some  such  theory  as  this,  for  the  great  impulse  which 
set  all  England  singing  during  the  last  twenty  years  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth.  Never  was  there  such  a  great  and  tuneful 
chorus.  Men  sang  freely,  carelessly,  joyously,  because  the 
singing  impulse  was  in  them,  and  because  all  around  them 
others  were  singing  too.  They  sang  of  sweet  May  mornings 
and  fragrant  summer  nights,  of  love  and  kisses  and  maids  with 
hair  of  beaten  gold  and  eyes  like  stars  ;  of  daffodils  and  prim- 
roses and  winking  Mary-buds,  of  frisking  lambs  and  morn- 
waking  birds ;  of  gowns  of  green  and  quoifs  and  laces  and 
stomachers  ;  of  curds  and  cream  and  nappy  ale.  They  sang, 
too,  of  graver  things — of  truth  and  falsehood,  of  sorrow  and 
death,  and  of  the  service  due  to  the  King  of  Heaven.  But 
whatever  the  theme,  the  song  came  with  a  swing  and  a  lilt 
delightful  to  the  ear.  The  writers  invented  new  measures  and 
cadences,  and  ornamented  them  with  little  joyous  trills  and 
merry  refrains  ;  or  made  the  sound  of  fairy  feet  dance  through 
them,  marking  a  magic  rhythm  ;  or  gaily  "  hunted  the  letter  " 
172 


|p  ENGLAND'S    HELICON 

down  the  winding  ways  of  a  dainty  ditty — all  for  sheer  delight 
in  their  work.  There  is  nothing  in  all  literature  like  the  lyrics 
that  were  written  in  this  wonderful  age.  As  we  read  them  now 
they  sing  themselves  in  our  ears  after  their  old  enchanting 
fashion,  and  that  joy  of  living  which  their  makers  felt  so  strongly 
stirs  all  our  pulses. 

For  our  share  in  these  treasures  of  the  Elizabethan  age  we 
are  largely  indebted  to  men  who,  like  the  unknown  compilers 
of  England's  Helicon,  collected  and  preserved  them.  For 
the  writers  themselves  took  small  trouble  in  this  matter.  The 
song  had  served  to  express  some  passing  mood,  to  make,  for 
a  moment,  the  air  vocal  for  the  singer  and  his  friends,  and 
having  done  this,  might  be  forgotten. 

At  the  Court  of  Elizabeth  men  like  Spenser,  Raleigh  and 
Sidney  led  a  chorus  of  song,  in  which  almost  every  courtier  took 
part.  Each  set  of  verses  as  it  was  written  was  handed  about 
among  the  writer's  friends,  perhaps  set  to  music  and  sung, 
copied  in  ladies'  albums,  talked  about,  imitated.  In  the  house 
of  every  nobleman,  gentleman  and  merchant,  the  same  sort  of 
thing,  in  its  degree,  was  going  on.  Musicians  were  busy  setting 
the  verses  to  music,  for  music,  both  vocal  and  instrumental, 
was  widely  cultivated  ;  the  two  arts  of  poetry  and  music  had, 
indeed,  an  immense  influence  the  one  upon  the  other.  At  the 
theatres  the  crowded  audiences  demanded  that  music  should 
form  part  of  the  entertainment,  and  Greene,  I^odge,  Peele,  and 
Shakespeare  himself,  followed  the  example  set  by  John 
lyyly,  and  introduced  into  their  plays  the  charming  lyrics 
which  form  so  important  a  part  of  the  Elizabethan  collection. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  among  this  mass  of  production 
all  songs  were  of  equal  merit.  Some,  indeed,  of  those  that 
have  come  down  to  us,  are  merely  mechanical  and  imitated 
jingles.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  have  fluency,  charm 
and  tunefulness,  and  many  are  great  Ijnric  poems. 

Naturally,  enterprising  booksellers  disapproved  of  the 
waste  of  precious  material  which  was  so  lavishly  and  so  con- 
stantly going  on.  As  early  as  1557  ^^  attempt  had  been 
made  to  collect  some  of  the  most  famous  of  the  lyrics  of  the 

173 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

time,  and  this  had  resulted  in  the  publication  of  Tottell's  t 
Miscellany.  It  contained  the  poems  of  Surrey,  Wyatt,  and  ^ 
about  forty  other  writers.  At  intervals  during  the  reign  of  \ 
Elizabeth  other  collections  appeared.  It  is  from  these  collec-  ' 
tions,  and  from  the  song  books,  also  published  in  large  numbers  ' 
during  this  period,  that  most  of  the  treasures  of  Elizabethan  -^ 
lyric  poetry  have  been  recovered.  ■ 

The  most  celebrated  and  the  best  of  these  miscellanies  is  the  j 
one  to  which  reference  has  already  been  made — England's  \ 
Helicon,  published  1600.     It  was  planned  by  John  Boden- 
ham,  and  edited  by  an  anonymous  ''A.  B."     One  or  other, 
or  both  of  these  men  must  have  possessed  a  very  iSne  poetic  ; 
taste,  for  the  very  best  of  all  the  Elizabethan  lyrics  known  i 
to  us  are  included  in  it.    All  the  plays,  romances,  sonnet- 
sequences,  song-books  and  miscellanies  of  the  period  must 
have  been  ransacked,  and  treasures  from  these  placed  side  1 
by    side    with   hitherto    unpublished    poems.     Twenty-seven  | 
poets,  living  and  dead,  are  represented.    In  the  Hst  of  these  | 
are  to  be  found  the  well-known  names  of  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  ' 
Sidney,  Surrey,  Drayton,  Raleigh,  Greene,  lyodge  and  Peele,  \ 
with  those  of  lesser  poets  such  as  Edmund  Bolton,  Nicholas 
Breton,  Richard  Barnefield,  Sir  Edward  Dyer,  Henry  Con-  ; 
stable,  and  John  Wootton.  ' 

Shakespeare  is  represented  only  by  the  song  from  Love's  ' 
Labour's  Lost,  On  a  day  (alack,  the  day).  The  ode,  As  it  j 
fell  upon  a  day,  is  ascribed  to  him  but  has  since  been  \ 
proved  to  be  the  work  of  Richard  Barnefield.  There  are  I 
three  poems  by  Spenser,  one  being  the  beautiful  elegy  on  Sir 
PhiUp  Sidney,  Colin  Clout's  Mournful  Ditty  for  the  Death  of  j 
Astrophel.  The  other  two  are  taken  from  the  Shepheard's  , 
Calendar.  One  of  these  is  called  Hobbinol's  Ditty  in  Praise  of  ' 
Eliza,  and  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  extravagant  flattery  ! 
that  the  fashion  of  the  day  obliged  the  courtly  poets  to  pay  to  , 
the  Queen. 

Tell  me,  have  ye  beheld  her  angel's  face,  ; 

Like  Phoebe  fair  ! 
Her  heavenly  behaviour,  her  princely  grace 

Can  well  compare  ;  \ 

174 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 

The  red  rose  medled^  and  the  white  yiere,* 
In  either  cheek  depeincted  lively  cheer. 

Her  modest  eye. 

Her  majesty. 
Where  have  you  seen  the  like  but  there  ? 

I  saw  Phoebus  thrust  out  his  golden  head 

On  her  to  gaze  : 
But  when  he  saw  how  broad  her  beams  did  spread 

It  did  him  maze. 
He  blush'd  to  see  another  sun  below, 
He  durst  again  his  fiery  face  outshow  ; 

Let  him  if  he  dare 

His  brightness  compare. 
With  hers  to  have  the  overthrow. 

There  are  several  poems  by  Sidney,  including  his  Dirge,  said 
to  have  been  written  at  the  time  when  its  author  first  heard 
of  the  marriage  of  Penelope  Devereux  to  I^rd  Rich  : 

Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shews  be  spread  ; 
For  Love  is  dead  : 

All  love  is  dead,  infected 
With  plague  of  deep  disdain  ; 

Worth,  as  nought  worth,  rejected, 
And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy. 

From  such  a  female  frenzy. 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 


Many  of  the  poems  take  the  conventional  pastoral  form,  and  | 

the  writer  speaks  of  himself  as  a  shepherd  and  of  his  lady  as  \ 

a  shepherdess.     There  is,  necessarily,   a  certain  artificiality  ■ 

about  this  pastoral  imagery,  but  it  gave  an  opportunity  for  i 

some  fresh  and  beautiful  country  lyrics.  < 

i 

Phylida  was  a  fayer  mayde,  :; 

And  fresh  as  any  flowre,  ' 

Surrey  had  sung,  in  the  days  of  Henry  VIII,  and  the  Eliza- 
bethans took  up  his  note  : 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ; 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hiUs  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields. 
Woods  or  steepy  moimtain  yields. 


»  Mixed.  *  Companions. 


175 

J 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


So  Marlowe's  "  Passionate  Shepherd  "  entreated  his  love,  and| 
Raleigh  replied  for  the  nymph  :  i 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young,  | 

And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue,  { 

These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move  ''. 

To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.  ] 

Michael  Drayton,  who,  like  his  friend  Shakespeare,  was  ai 
native  of  Warwickshire,  was  a  great  writer  of  pastorals.  His! 
Shepherd's  Daffodil  is  one  of  the  freshest  and  daintiest  of  itsj 
class :  : 

Gorbo,  as  thou  cam'st  this  way  j 

By  yonder  little  hill,  I 

Or  as  thou  through  the  fields  didst  stray,  j 
Saw'st  thou  my  daffodil  ? 

She's  in  a  frock  of  Lincoln-green,  j 

The  colour  maids  deUght ;  '; 

And  never  hath  her  beauty  seen  ■ 

But  through  a  veil  of  white,  ' 

Than  roses  richer  to  behold  i 

That  dress  up  lovers'  bowers  ;  | 

The  pansy  and  the  marigold  ; 
Are  Phcebus'  paramours. 

/  I 

The  poems  of  England's  Helicon  show  the  greatest  variety  in ! 
form.  Some  are  written  in  the  old  '  poulter's  measure,'  so  | 
called  because  it  was  said  to  resemble  the  jog-trot  of  a  farmer 
carrying  his  goods  to  market.  Shakespeare  ridicules  it  in  hisj 
As  You  Like  It.  "I'll  rhyme  you  so  eight  years  together,! 
dinners  and  suppers  and  sleeping  hours  excepted,"  sayS; 
Touchstone,  "  it  is  the  right  butter- woman's  rank  to  market  "  ;; 
and  he  goes  on  to  give  proof  of  his  ability  :  i 

i 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind,  ' 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind.  i 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind,  ' 
So  be  sure  will  Rosalind. 

i 

But  the  later  Elizabethans  had  learnt  how  to  transform  this! 
'jog-trot'  measure  into  something  much  more  smooth  and; 
flowing,  and  some  most  successful  examples  are  to  be  found  in, 
176  I 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 

lland's  Helicon.     Richard  Barnefield  used  it  for  the  beauti- 
Ode  '  which  has  abready  been  mentioned. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day. 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  spring ; 
^Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 
Iveaned  her  breast  up-tiU  a  thorn 
And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

The  larger  number  of  the  poems,  however,  illustrate  the 
tendency  of  the  time  to  invent  new,  varied,  and  sometimes 
almost  fantastic  measures.  I^ge,  who  is  one  of  the  sweetest 
and  most  tuneful  of  the  Elizabethan  singers,  shows  a  mastery 
over  a  wide  range  of  metres.  His  charming  song  To  Phyllis 
the  Fair  Shepherdess  is  founded  upon  the  '  poulter's  measure/ 

I  ^H  My  Phyllis  hath  the  morning  Sun, 

I  ^B  At  first  to  look  upon  her  ; 

I^K  And  Phyllis  hath  mom- waking  birds, 

I^P^  Her  rising  still  to  honour. 

But  in  some  of  his  songs  he  goes  very  far  from  this.    For 
example :  J 

Phoebe  sat,  1 

Sweet  she  sat,  i 

Sweet  sat  Phoebe  when  I  saw  her. 

White  her  brow. 

Coy  her  eye,  \ 

Brow  and  eye  how  much  you  please  me  !  | 

Words  I  span,  J 

Sighs  I  sent,  \ 

Sighs  and  words  could  never  draw  her.  j 

O  my  love  !  j 

Thou  art  lost,  c 

Since  no  sight  could  ever  ease  thee.  I 

Other   less   known  writers  show  the  same   tendency.    A  \ 

little  poem,  signed  "  W.  H.,*'  runs  thus  : 

How  shall  I  her  pretty  tread 

Express  ! 

When  she  doth  walk  ?  \ 

Scarce  she  does  the  primrose  head  ^ 

Depress,  , 

M  177  ; 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Or  tender  stalk 

Of  blue  vein'd  violets  ? 

Whereon  her  foot  she  sets,  \ 

Virtuous  she  is  for  we  find  ,- 

In  body  fair  a  beauteous  mind.  ', 

The  form  of  the  poem  is  often  decided  by  the  fact  that  it ; 
is  written  for  the  purpose  of  being  set  to  music.  Sometimes,  ; 
as  in  the  case  of  Thomas  Campion,  the  poet  and  the  musician  ^ 
are  united  in  one  person,  and  so  words  and  air  take  shape  \ 
together.  ■  Elizabethan  composers  used  two  quite  distinct  ' 
musical  forms — ^the  madrigal  and  the  ayre.  The  madrigal  i 
was  one  unbroken  piece  of  music,  forming  a  complete  whole  1 
without  division  or  repetition.  The  corresponding  lyric  ; 
form  is  also  called  a  madrigal,  and  follows  the  music.  ' 

Hark,  jolly  shepherds,  < 

Hark,  yon  lusty  ringing,  | 

How  cheerfully  the  bells  dance 

The  whilst  the  lads  are  springing  ! 
Go  we  then,  why  sit  we  here  delaying  ? 
And  all  yond  merry,  wanton  lasses  playing  ? 
How  gaily  Flora  leads  it. 
And  sweetly  treads  it. 
The  woods  and  groves  they  ring. 

Lovely  resounding,  ,d 

With  echoes  rebounding.  | 

The  ayre  was  written  for  poems  which  were  divided  into  ; 
stanzas,  and  was  repeated  for  each  stanza  ;  e.g. :  ^ 

Tune  on  my  pipe  the  praises  of  my  love,  jj 

Ivove  fair  and  bright ;  ; 

Till  earth  with  sound,  and  airy  heavens  above 

Heaven's  Jove's  delight,  ! 

With  Daphnis'  praise.  j 

To  pleasant  Tempe  groves  and  plains  about,  \ 

Plains  shepherds'  pride,  i 

Resounding  echoes  of  her  praise  ring  out,  1 

Ring  far  and  wide  4 

My  Daphnis'  praise.  j 

It  is  impossible  here  to  give  any  account  of  all  the  beautiful  j 
poems  which  this  Elizabethan  anthology  contains.    Almost  ! 
every  one  is  a  gem.     Most  of  the  quotations  in  this  chapter 
have  been,  designedly,  taken  from  some  of  the  least-known  i 

178  ■ 


IP  ENGLAND'S    HELICON 

poems  in  the  collection,  but  we  will  finish  with  the  one  that  is 
perhaps  the  best  known  of  them  all — Robert  Greene's  lovely 
Content : 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content ; 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown  ; 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent ; 

The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry  frown  : 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such  bliss. 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest ; 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care  ; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best  ; 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare  ; 
Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss, 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 


179 


CHAPTER  XX 
HAKLUYrS    VOYAGES 

RICHARD  HAKIvUYT  was  one  of  those  supremely 
fortunate  persons  who  go  through  life  with  a  great 
.  absorbing  purpose  set  clear  and  plain  before  them. 
While  he  was  yet  a  boy  the  passion  was  kindled  within  him 
which  led  him  on  through  years  of  hardships,  and  made  his 
toil  a  delight.  He  tells  us  himself,  just  how  it  happened.  "  I 
do  remember,"  he  says,  "  that  being  a  youth  and  one  of  her 
Majesty's  scholars  at  Westminster,  that  fruitful  nurserie,  it 
was  my  hap  to  visit  the  chamber  of  Mr,  Richard  Hakluyt 
my  Cosin,  a  Gentleman  of  the  Middle  Temple,  at  a  time  when  I 
found  lying  open  upon  his  boord  certeine  bookes  of  Cosmo- 
graphie,  with  an  Universalle  Mappe.  He  seeing  me  some- 
what curious  in  the  view  thereof  began  to  instruct  my  ignorance 
by  showing  me  the  division  of  the  earth  into  three  partes 
after  the  olde  account,  and  then  according  to  the  latter  and 
better  distribution  more ;  he  pointed  with  his  wand  to  all 
the  knowen  Seas,  Gulfs,  Bayes,  Straights,  Capes,  Rivers, 
Empires,  Kingdoms,  Dukedoms  and  Territories  of  ech  part, 
with  declaration  also  of  their  special  commodities  and  par- 
ticular wants,  which  by  the  benefit  of  traffike  and  entercourse 
of  merchants  are  plentifully  supplied.  From  the  map  he 
brought  me  to  the  Bible,  and  turning  to  the  107th  Psalme 
directed  me  to  the  23rd  and  24th  verses,  where  I  read  that 
'  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do  business  in 
great  waters ;  these  see  the  works  of  the  lyord,  and  His  wonders 
in  the  deep.'  Which  words  of  the  Prophet  together  with  my 
cousin's  discourse  (things  of  high  and  rare  delight  to  my 
young  nature)  tooke  in  me  so  deepe  an  impression,  that  I 
180 


KHAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 
nstantly  resolved,  if  ever  I  were  preferred  to  the  University, 
wnere  better  time  and  more  convenient  place  might  be 
ministered  for  these  studies,  I  would,  by  God's  assistance, 
prosecute  that  knowledge  and  kind  of  Hterature  the  doores 
whereof  (after  a  sort)  were  so  happily  opened  before  me." 

Hakluyt  was  fortunate,  too,  in  the  age  in  which  he  Hved. 
There  never  was  such  an  age  for  the  student  of  '  Cosmo- 
graphic  '  and  for  the  man  who  took  "  a  high  and  rare  delight  " 
in  learning  of  the  **  wonders  in  the  deep/'  It  was  nearly  a 
hundred  years  since  Columbus  had  sailed  on  that  memorable 
voyage  which  opened  to  us  a  new  world,  and  his  example, 
and  the  great  "  fame  and  report "  that  he  gained,  Ut  in  other 
hearts  "  a  great  flame  of  desire  to  attempt  some  notable 
thing."  So  said  Sebastian  Cabot,  a  Venetian  merchant,  who, 
in  1497,  sailed  from  Bristol  and  discovered  the  coast  of 
Labrador  ;  and  after  him  came  many  others,  Portuguese  and 
Spaniards  and  ItaUans,  and,  last  of  all,  EngUsh.  The  BngUsh 
age  of  exploration  did  not  begin  until  half-way  through  the 
sixteenth  century.  But  though  late  in  the  field,  they  did  not 
long  lag  behind.  Hugh  Willoughby,  Richard  Chancellor, 
John  Hawkins,  Humphrey  Gilbert,  Walter  Raleigh,  Francis 
Drake,  Martin  Frobisher,  John  Davys — ^these  all  stand  in  the 
front  rank  of  sixteenth-century  explorers. 

For  the  stay-at-homes  as  well  as  for  the  travellers,  these 
voyages  of  exploration  opened  out  new  worlds  of  beauty  and 
wonder.  The  returned  sailors  filled  every  port  in  the  country 
with  marvellous  stories  of  their  adventures,  and  from  the 
ports  the  stories  travelled  inland.  A  traveller's  yam,  as  strange 
as  any  that  Sir  John  Mandeville  had  offered  his  readers,  might 
be  heard  in  almost  every  place  where  a  few  men  were  gathered 
together — in  the  market,  the  tavern,  the  barber's  shop,the  open 
street.  And  it  was  not  only  of  the  marvels  of  the  new  lands 
that  the  seamen  spoke.  They  had  nobler  stories  to  tell  of  perils 
bravely  met  and  difficulties  overcome.  The  spirit  of  English- 
men rose  high  as  the  brave  tales  went  round,  and  men  heard 

Daily  how  through  hardy  enterprise 
Many  great  Regions  are  discovered. 

181 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

For  a  long  time  the  written  records  of  the  voyages  were  very 
imperfect  and  scanty.  Captains  kept  their  logs,  and  sometimes 
on  their  return  home  pubHshed  a  narrative  compiled  from  these ; 
or  sometimes  a  member  of  an  expedition  wrote  a  more  or  less 
detailed,  independent  personal  narrative.  John  Hawkins 
wrote  A  True  Declaration  of  the  Troublesome  voyage  of  Mr.  John 
Hawkins  to  the  parts  of  Guinea  and  the  West  Indies  in  the  years 
of  our  Lord,  1567  and  1568,  and  in  1570  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 
wrote  his  Discourse  of  a  Discover ie  for  a  new  passage  to  Cataia. 
Frobisher  and  Richard  Hawkins  also  published  some  account 
of  their  voyages.  All  these  attracted  much  attention,  and 
throughout  the  country  men  were  eagerly  asking  for  more  of 
these  fascinating  and  heart-stirring  stories.  But  many  voyages 
remained  entirely  unrecorded,  and  much  splendid  material  for 
epic  narrative  was  in  danger  of  being  lost. 

It  seems  strange  when  we  think  of  the  number  of  men  who 
were  at  this  time  writing  poetry  in  England,  that  nobody  seized 
upon  one  of  these  great  heroic  stories  and  made  it  the  basis 
of  an  epic  poem.  To  write  a  lyric  was,  in  those  golden  days, 
the  ordinary  accomplishment  of  a  gentleman,  to  write  a  play 
was  in  the  day's  work  of  a  Hterary  hack.  But  no  one,  it  seems, 
thought  of  writing  an  epic,  though  the  material  lay  so  ready 
to  hand.  For  some  unexplained  reason  such  work  did  not 
suit  the  genius  of  the  age.  It  responded  freely  and  fully  to  the 
stimulus  which  came  from  this  tremendous  expansion  of 
natural  activity ;  the  literature  of  the  day  is  full  of  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  voyagers,  it  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  sea  and 
sings  triumphantly  of  the  glories  of  the  new  lands.  But  for 
that  full  commendation,  which  should  suffice  to  pass  their 
names  down  to  posterity,  the  great  Elizabethan  seamen 
waited  for  Richard  Haklujrt. 

Hakluyt  was  not  a  sailor,  and  his  home  was  in  the  inland 
county  of  Herefordshire.  He  came  of  a  learned  stock,  and 
received  a  scholarly  education  to  fit  him  for  his  destined 
place  as  a  clergyman  of  the  English  Church.  He  does  not 
seem  ever  to  have  travelled  farther  than  Paris.  Yetfhe  will 
always  be  closely  associated  with  great  deeds  done  upon  the 
182 


HAKLUYT'S    VOYAGES 

high  seas,  and  wonderful  adventures  in  distant  lands.  The 
fascination  which  these  things  had  for  him  kept  him  faithful  all 
his  life  long  to  the  purpose  which  he  had  formed  in  his  boyish 
days.  When  he  went  from  Westminster  School  to  Christ 
Church,  Oxford,  he  followed,  with  a  single  mind,  the  path  he 
had  marked  out  for  himself.  He  learnt  six  languages  in  order 
that  he  might  be  able  to  read  all  the  narratives  of  voyages 
that  he  could  possibly  obtain.  He  studied  geography,  as  far  as 
it  was  then  known ;  more  especially  he  paid  attention  to  the 
construction  of  maps.  He  learned  the  art  of  navigation,  with 
the  use  of  the  navigator's  instruments.  When  he  left  the 
University  he  lectured  on  these  subjects,  probably  to  merchants 
and  shipmen  of  the  Port  of  I^ondon,  "  to  the  singular  pleasure 
and  general  contentment  of  his  audience." 

By  this  time  he  had  begun  to  collect  the  scattered  narratives 
of  the  ear  her  voyagers,  and  to  attempt,  as  he  said,  "  to  in- 
corporate into  one  body  the  torn  and  scattered  Umbs  of  our 
ancient  and  late  navigations  by  sea."  Of  some  voyages  no 
written  account  existed.  Hakluyt  set  himself  dihgently  to 
work  to  collect  such  facts  as  might  enable  him  to  supply  the 
omission.  Every  possible  source  of  information — official  docu- 
ments, letters,  chance  references  in  hterature,  the  stories  current 
in  the  common  gossip  of  the  day — was  dealt  with  in  able  and 
painstaking  fashion.  Once  Hakluyt  rode  two  hundred  miles 
for  an  interview  with  the  last  survivor  of  Master  Hoare's 
expedition  to  America,  1536.  Some  facts  concerning  the 
memorable  and  unrecorded  voyages  of  Sebastian  Cabot  he 
gathered  from  an  account  given  to  "  Certaine  Gentlemen  of 
Venice  "  by  the  Pope's  Legate  in  Spain,  who  had  it  from  Cabot 
himself,  in  his  old  age.  "  What  restless  nights,  what  painful 
days,  what  heat,  what  cold,  I  have  endured ;  how  many  long 
and  chargeable  journeys  I  have  travelled ;  how  many  famous 
Hbraries  I  have  searched  into ;  what  variety  of  ancient  and 
modern  writers  I  have  perused  ;  what  a  number  of  old  records, 
patents,  privileges,  letters,  etc.,  I  have  redeemed  from  ob- 
scurity and  perishing  ;  into  how  manifold  acquaintance  I  have 
entered ;  what  expenses  I  have  not  spared." 

183 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

In  1582  Hakluyt  published  Divers  Voyages  touching  the 
Discoverie  of  America,  which  he  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
From  1583  to  1588  he  was  living  in  Paris,  as  chaplain  to  the 
English  embassy.  Here  the  stories  which  he  heard  of  foreign 
enterprise  made  him  still  more  eager  to  continue  his  work,  and 
"  to  wade  still  further  and  further  in  the  sweet  studie  of  the 
historic  of  cosmographie."  In  1590  he  became  Rector  of 
Wetheringsett  in  Suffolk,  and  married  in  1594.  In  1589 
his  great  work,  The  Principall  Navigations,  Voiages  and 
Discoveries  of  the  English  Nation,  made  by  sea  or  over  land  to 
the  most  remote  and  farthest  distant  quarters  of  the  earth  at  any 
time  within  the  compasse  of  these  fifteen  hundred  yeares,  was 
published. 

This  book,  as  Froude  has  said,  "  may  be  called  the  Prose 
Epic  of  the  modern  English  nation.  .  .  .  We  have  no  longer 
kings  or  princes  for  chief  actors,  to  whom  the  heroism,  like 
the  dominion  of  the  world  had  in  time  past  been  confined. 
But,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Apostles,  when  a  few  poor 
fishermen  from  an  obscure  lake  in  Palestine  assumed,  under 
the  Divine  mission,  the  spiritual  authority  over  mankind,  so, 
in  the  days  of  our  own  Elizabeth,  the  seamen  from  the  banks 
of  the  Thames  and  the  Avon,  the  Plym  and  the  Dart,  self- 
taught  and  self-directed,  with  no  impulse  but  what  was  beating 
in  their  own  royal  hearts,  went  out  across  the  unknown  seas 
fighting,  discovering,  colonizing,  and  graved  out  the  channels, 
paving  them  at  last  with  their  bones,  through  which  the  com- 
merce and  enterprise  of  England  have  flowed  out  over  all  the 
world.  We  can  conceive  nothing,  not  the  songs  of  Homer 
himself,  which  would  be  read  among  us  with  more  enthusiastic 
interest  than  these  plain  massive  tales." 

Charles  Kingsley,  who  founded  his  great  book  Westward  Ho  ! 
on  Hakluyt's  Voyages,  speaks  of  the  sailor  heroes  with  the  same 
enthusiasm.  "  I  have  been  living  in  those  Elizabethan 
books,"  he  says,  "  among  such  grand,  beautiful,  silent  men, 
that  I  am  learning  to  be  sure  of  what  I  all  along  suspected, 
that  I  am  a  poor,  queasy,  hysterical,  half-baked  sort  of  fellow, 
so  that  I  am  by  no  means  hopeful  about  my  book,  which  seems 
J84 


IP  HAKLUYT'S    VOYAGES 

to  me  only  half  as  good  as  I  could  have  written,  and  only  one- 
hundredth  part  as  good  as  ought  to  be  written  on  the  matter," 
It  is,  indeed,  a  great  and  notable  company  to  which  Hakluyt 
introduces  us.  There  is  Sebastian  Cabot,  "  a  very  gentle 
person,"  who  laid  down  wise  laws  for  his  "  companie  of  Mar- 
chants  adventurers,"  directing  that  all  the  crew  shall  be  "so 
knit  and  accorded  in  unitie,  love,  conformitie,  and  obedience 
in  everie  degree  on  all  sides,  that  no  dissention,  variance  or  con- 
tention may  rise  or  spring  betwixt  them  and  the  mariners 
of  this  companie  to  the  damage  or  hindrance  of  the  voyage." 
There  is  Martin  Frobisher,  so  bent  upon  his  great  enterprise  of 
discovering  the  North- West  Passage  to  India  that  "  he  deter- 
mined and  resolved  with  himself  to  go  make  full  proof  thereof, 
and  to  accomplish  or  bring  true  certificate  of  the  truth,  or 
else  never  to  return  again  ;  knowing  this  to  be  the  only  thing 
of  the  world  that  was  left  yet  undone,  whereby  a  notable 
mind  might  be  made  famous  and  fortunate."  There  is  Sir 
Richard  Hawkins,  who  sailed  in  his  ship  Repentance,  which  his 
mother  had  named  because,  she  said,  "  repentance  was  the 
safest  ship  we  could  sail  in  to  purchase" the ^aveh  of  heaven." 
There  is  Francis  Drake,  full  of  '*  invincible  courage  and 
industry,"  climbing  a  tree  in  Panama,  so  that  two  oceans  lay 
stretched  beneath  his  gaze,  and  vowing  that  he  would  sail  a 
ship  into  the  unknown  Pacific  ;  crawling  out  upon  the  cliffs  of 
Terra  Del  Fuego,  and  leaning  his  head  over  the  southernmost 
angle  of  the  world  ;  "  scoring  a  furrow  round  the  globe  with 
his  keel,"  and  receiving  the  homage  of  the  barbarians  of  the 
antipodes  in  the  name  of  the  Virgin  Mary ;  "  singeing  the 
King  of  Spain's  beard  "  in  that  '*  strange  and  happy  enter- 
prise "  in  which  he  "  burnt,  sunk  or  brought  away  "  thirty 
ships  from  the  harbour  of  Santa  Cruz,  including  "  one  new 
ship  of  extraordinary  hugeness,  being  in  burden  about  1200 
tons,  belonging  to  the  Marquis  of  Santa  Cruz,  at  that  instant 
high  admiral  of  Spain,"  which  exploit  "  bred  such  a  corrosive 
in  the  heart  of  the  marquis,  that  he  never  enjoyed  good  day 
after."  There  is  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  who  went  down  in 
his  little  ship  the  Squirrel,  dying  in  a  fashion  "  well  beseeming 

185 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


\ 


a  soldier  resolute  m  Jesus  Chnst/'  and  whose  great  words  \ 
written  in  his  Discourse  sum  up  the  grand  and  simple  creed  by  ^ 
which  these  brave  mariners  directed  their  lives :  "  Never,  j 
therefore,  mislike  with  me  for  taking  in  hand  any  laudable  and  \ 
honest  enterprise,  for  if  through  pleasure  or  idleness  we  purchase  | 
shame,  the  pleasure  vanisheth,  but  the  shame  abideth  for  ever.  | 
Give  me  leave,  therefore,  without  offence,  always  to  hve  and  \ 
die  in  this  mind  :  that  he  is  not  worthy  to  live  at  all  that,  for  | 
fear  or  danger  of  death,  shunneth  his  country's  service  and  his  i 
own  honour,  seeing  that  death  is  inevitable  and  the  fame  of  I 
virtue  immortal."  j 

z'  It  is  to  Richard  Hakluyt  that  we  owe  our  intimate  know- 1 
ledge  of  all  these  great  heroes,  and  of  many  more,  not  lesS; 
than  they.  Their  histories  had  long  lain  "  miserably  scattered  i 
in  mustie  corners,  and  retchlessly  hidden  in  mistie  darknesse, 
and  were  very  like  for  the  greatest  part  to  have  been  buried 
in  perpetuall  oblivion."  Hakluyt  recovered  them  for  us,  and' 
in  so  doing  gained  for  himself  an  honoured  place  in  the  history  of 
English  literature. 


1 86 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ECCLESIASTICAL   POLITY 

WE  have  seen  how,  throughout  the  reign  of  Elizabeth 
the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  had  mounted  ever 
higher  and  higher,  and  had  produced  a  literature 
such  as  has  hardly  been  equalled  during  all  the  ages  of  the 
world's  history.  But  underneath  all  the  riot  of  wit  and  glory  of 
imagination,  the  sober,  serious  spirit  of  the  Englishman  still 
persisted.  There  were  still  many  men  in  the  country  to  whom 
reUgion  was  the  great  central  fact  of  life.  While  the  first  notes 
were  rising  from  the  great  company  of  singers  whose  chorus 
was  to  fill  the  land  with  music,  Cranmer,  with  his  band  of 
helpers  was  perfecting  that  glory  of  the  English  Church,  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer ;  while  Marlowe  was  thriUing  the 
crowds  that  flocked  to  the  Belsavage  Playhouse  with  his 
riotous  Tamhurlaine  or  his  terrible  Faust,  EngHshmen  who 
were  exiles  for  the  faith  were  watching  with  envious  admiration 
the  godly,  strictly  ordered  community  which  Calvin  had 
estabHshed  in  Geneva  ;  and  in  the  same  year  that  Shakespeare's 
mirthful  fairy  play,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  was  first 
produced,  Richard  Hooker  from  his  quiet  country  parsonage  at 
Bishopsbourne  sent  out  the  first  part  of  his  great  theological 
work.  The  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 

The  title  is  not  a  very  attractive  one,  nor  is  the  '  judicious 
Hooker  *  at  first  sight  a  very  attractive  personality,  especially 
when  he  is  placed  beside  the  great  and  gallant  figures  which 
crowd  that  glorious  age.  "  What  went  they  out  to  see,"  says 
his  biographer,  Izaak  Walton,  referring  to  the  visitors  whom 
Hooker's  fame  attracted  to  his  quiet  country  home,  "  A  man 
clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen  ?    No,  indeed  ;  but  an  obscure, 

117 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  I 

harmless  man ;   a  man  in  poor  clothes,  his  loins  usually  girt  j 

in  a  coarse  gown,  or  canonical  coat ;   of  a  mean  stature,  and! 

stooping,  and  yet  more  lowly  in  the  thoughts  of  his  soul ;  hisl 

body  worn  out,  not  with  age,  but  study  and  holy  mortifica-^ 

tions ;   his  face  full  of  heat  pimples,  begot  by  his  unactivity^ 

and  sedentary  life.  .  ,  .     God  and  nature  blessed  him  with  so  ^ 

blessed  a  bashfulness,  that  as  in  his  younger  days  his  pupils] 

might  easily  look  him  out  of  countenance  ;  so  neither  then,  nor  | 

in  his  age,  did  he  ever  wilHngly  look  any  man  in  the  face  :  j 

and  was  of  so  mild  and  humble  a  nature,  that  his  poor  parish  i 

clerk  and  he  did  never  talk  but  with  both  their  hats  on,  or  '\ 

both  o£E,  at  the  same  time :    and  to  this  may  be  added,  that  j 

though  he  was  not  purblind,  yet  he  was  short  or  weak-sighted  ;  '\ 

and  where  he  fixed  his  eyes  at  the  beginning  of  his  sermon,  there  i 

they  continued  till  it  was  ended."  j 

Yet,  if  a  great  work,  nobly  conceived  and  finely  executed,  | 

can  dignify  its  author  there  is  a  very  real  grandeur  in  the  in-  ? 

significant  figure  thus  described,  and  Richard  Hooker  deserves  ■' 

to  be  remembered  among  those  other  *  men  of  Devon '  who  ^ 

shed  glory  upon  their  native  county  in  the  reign  of  the  great  . 

Queen.     He  was  born  at  Heavytree,  near  Exeter,  March  1554,  i 

and  was  educated  at  the  Exeter  High  School.     He  was,  even  as  ] 

a  boy,  slow,  grave,  and  earnest  in  manner,  of  a  fine  modesty,  1 

and  with  a  keen  intellectual  curiosity  united  to  a  serene  quiet-  ' 

ness    of    temper.    Everywhere    these    quaHties   gained    him  j 

friends.     It  was  under  the  patronage  of  the  great  Bishop  | 

Jewel — himself  a  Devonshire  man — that  he  entered  Corpus  ' 

Christi  College,  Oxford,  in  1568,  and  he  remained  there,  first  ' 

as  student,  and  then  as  Fellow,  until  1584,  when  he  married.  1 

His  wife  is  credited  with  shrewishness  of  temper,  and  several  of  j 

Hooker's  friends  have  represented  him  as  a  most  pitiably  hen-  ] 

pecked  and  oppressed  husband.     But  it  is  probable  that  in 

this  there  has  been  considerable  exaggeration.     For  a  year  after  i 

his  marriage  Hooker  held  a  small  living  in  Buckinghamshire.   \ 

Here  he  was  visited  by  two  of  his  pupils,  Edwin  Sandys  and   : 

George  Cranmer.    They  found  him  with  the  Odes  of  Horace 

in  his  hand,  tending  the  sheep,  while  the  servant  was  away  at 

188 


B  ECCLESIASTICAL  POLITY 
ner.  Being  released  from  this  occupation,  Hooker  engaged 
eager  conversation  with  his  visitors,  but  was  soon  called 
away  to  rock  the  cradle  of  his  baby  daughter,  Joan.  The  two 
young  men,  wrathful  and  indignant,  left  the  house  early  the 
next  morning.  To  an  unprejudiced  judgment,  however. 
Hooker's  case  does  not  seem  to  have  been  such  a  very  terrible 
one.  To  tend  sheep  is  an  occupation  neither  harmful  nor 
degrading,  and  as  for  rocking  the  cradle,  why,  as  Mr.  Stopford 
Brooke  says,  "  Richard  could  not  have  had  a  sweeter  employ- 
ment ;  he  was  precisely  in  the  place  assigned  to  him  in  the 
divine  order  of  the  universe."  He  himself,  as  far  as  we  can 
tell,  never  showed  by  his  words  or  his  actions  any  feehng 
toward  his  wife,  save  respect  and  affection,  and  he  proved  his 
confidence  in  her  by  making  her  the  sole  executrix  of  his  will. 

In  1585  Hooker  was  appointed  Master  of  the  Temple,  where 
he  soon  became  famous  as  a  preacher  who  upheld  with  power 
and  abiHty  the  estabHshed  order  of  the  English  Church.  But 
he  was  not  nearly  as  happy  here  as  he  had  been  in  his  quiet 
home  in  Buckinghamshire.  It  was  Hooker's  duty  to  preach 
the  morning  sermon.  In  the  afternoon  his  place  was  taken 
by  IMr.  Walter  Travers,  a  man  of  upright  character,  and  great 
zeal,  but  a  strong  upholder  of  the  Presbyterian  form  of  church 
government.  Travers  was  a  very  popular  preacher,  and 
people  flocked  in  crowds  to  the  Temple  to  hear  his  heated 
attacks  on  the  bishops  of  the  Church.  So,  as  witty,  gossiping 
Thomas  Fuller  tells  us,  in  his  Worthies  of  England,  written 
some  fifty  years  after, "  The  pulpit  of  the  Temple  spoke  pure 
Canterbury  in  the  morning  and  Geneva  in  the  afternoon.  At 
the  building  of  Solomon's  temple  neither  hammer  nor  axe 
nor  tool  of  iron  was  heard  therein.  Whereas,  alas  !  in  this 
Temple,  not  only  much  knocking  was  heard,  but  (which  was 
the  worst)  the  nails  and  pins  which  one  master-builder  drave 
in  were  driven  out  by  the  other." 

Such  a  state  of  things  was  terribly  distressing  to  poor 
Hooker.  He  could  not  Hve  amid  bitterness  and  strife.  The 
authorities  were  on  his  side,  and  Archbishop  Whitgift  pro- 
hibited Travers  from  preaching  on  the  ground  that  his  ordina- 

189 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

tion  was  irregular.     But  even  this  did  not  free  Hooker  from  J 
his  difficulties.    Travers  carried  on  the  war  in  print,  and  hisb 
unwilling  adversary  was  forced  to  reply.     Utterly  weary  of  it  I 
all,  Hooker  addressed  an  almost  piteous  petition  to  the  Arch-  \ 
bishop.     "  My  lyord,  when  I  lost  the  freedom  of  my  cell,  which  ^ 
was  my  college,  yet  I  found  some  degree  of  it  in  my  quiet; 
country  parsonage  ;  but  I  am  weary  of  the  noise  and  opposi- 
tions of  this  place,  and,  indeed,  God  and  nature  did  not  intend 
me  for  contentions,  but  for  study  and  quietness."    He  goes.^ 
on  to  speak  with  modesty,  yet  with  a  due  sense  of  its  im--^ 
portance,  of  the  work  on  which  he  is  engaged,  and  his  desire  to  ,j 
write  a  book  that  shall  be  worthy  of  his  great  subject.     "  I  shall ^^ 
never  be  able  to  do  this,  but  where  I  may  study  and  pray  for  ^ 
God's  blessing  on  my  endeavours,  and  keep  myself  in  peace 
and  privacy,  and  behold  God's  blessing  spring  out  of  my  mother 
earth,  and  eat  my  own  bread  without  opposition." 

The  Archbishop  Hstened  to  Hooker's  plea,  and  recognized] 
its  justice.  In  1591  the  living  of  Boscum,  near  Salisbury,  wasj 
given  to  him.  Here  in  '  peace  and  privacy '  he  laboured- 
with  good  heart  at  his  great  work,  and  in  1594  the  first  four  I 
books  of  the  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity  were  pubHshed.  "  All  ^ 
things  written  in  this  booke,"  Hooker  wrote  in  the  Preface,  ''  I  j 
humbly  and  meekly  submit  to  the  censure  of  the  grave  andj 
reverend  Prelates  within  this  land,  to  the  judgment  of  learned  \ 
men,  and  the  sober  consideration  of  all  others.  Wherein  I  j 
may  haply  erre  as  others  before  me  have  done,  but  an  heretike  j 
by  the  help  of  Almighty  God  I  will  never  be." 

Hooker's  book  attempts  to  set  forward,  clearly  and  in  order,  i 
the  laws  on  which  the  English  Church,  as  estabHshed  by  \ 
Elizabeth,  was  founded  ;  and,  in  doing  so,  to  claim  and  gain  \ 
for  it  the  allegiance  of  all  EngHshmen,  including  those  who 
looked  yearningly  after  the  ancient  glories  of  the  Church  of  : 
Rome,  and  those  who  were  attracted  by  the  strict  moral  code  ; 
of  the  Puritans.  This  was  not  an  easy  matter,  for  the  lines 
of  the  settlement  had  been  decided  by  State  policy  rather  than  j 
by  any  consideration  of  what  was  theoretically  perfect.  \ 
There  had  been  so  much  compromise,  so  many  attempts  to  | 
190  ^ 


Ii  ECCLESIASTICAL  POLITY 
fcng  in  men  of  all  shades  of  opinion  that  the  Church  had 
Hally  no  firm  basis  of  definite  law  on  which  to  stand.  Her 
constitution  was  chaotic  and  uncertain.  Hooker  rendered  to 
her  the  great  service  of  deducing  her  laws  from  her  practice, 
and  setting  these  out  clearly,  persuasively  and  attractively. 

The  task  suited  both  his  temperament  and  his  gifts.  He 
was  warmly  attached  to  the  Church  of  England,  and  a  notable 
member  of  the  small  band  which  was  already,  in  these  early 
days,  gathering  round  her  in  loyal  devotion.  He  loved  above 
all  things  order  and  peace.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of,"  his 
friend,  Dr.  Saravia,  asked  him,  as  he  lay  in  bed  during  his  last 
illness.  "  I  was  meditating,"  replied  Hooker,  "  on  the  number 
and  nature  of  angels,  and  their  blessed  obedience  and  order, 
without  which  peace  could  not  be  in  heaven ;  and  oh,  that  it 
might  be  so  on  earth  I  '*  This  was  his  aspiration  always — 
peace  on  earth ;  and  at  first  sight  it  may  seem  strange  that  a 
man  of  such  a  temperament  should  find  his  life-work  in  a  book 
controversial  in  its  character.  But  it  is  to  this  love  of  peace 
that  his  book  owes  much  of  its  fine  and  rare  quality.  Hooker 
was,  to  use  his  own  words,  one  of  those  who  do  "  not  so  much 
incUne  to  that  severity  which  delighteth  to  reprove  the  least 
it  seeth  amiss,  as  to  that  charity  which  is  unwilling  to  behold 
anything  that  duty  bindeth  it  to  reprove."  He  does  not 
address  those  who  are  attacking  the  position  he  has  undertaken 
to  defend  as  if  they  were  enemies  who  must  be  smitten  down, 
overthrown,  exterminated.  Rather  he  holds  out  a  hand  to 
them,  and  says,  "  Come  with  me.  You  do  not  know  how 
strong  and  rich  and  fair  is  the  city  you  would  destroy.  I^et 
me  show  you  her  bulwarks,  her  treasures,  the  vastness  of  her 
domains  which  can  shelter  all  mankind,  the  beneficence  of 
her  government  which  takes  count  of  each  unit  in  the  throng. 
When  you  have  seen  all  this  the  desire  of  attacking  her  will  pass 
from  you,  and  you  will  lead  in  the  little  colony  which  has 
estabUshed  itself  outside  her  walls  to  be  cherished  under  the 
wise  and  tender  care  of  this  great  Mother  of  Men." 

The  contrast  between  Hooker's  calm  concihatory  tone  and 
the  heated  and  abusive  railing  commonly  used  in  the  religious 

191 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  j 

controversies  of  the  day  helps  to  show  how  great  a  book  the  ' 
Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is.    It  Hf  ted  the  whole  matter  to  a  ^ 
higher  plane  ;  it  gave  dignity  to  what  had  been  mere  bitterness : 
and  squabbling. 

The  book  is  a  Hterary  masterpiece — ^the  first  great  Enghsh 
prose  classic.    Its  style  is  high  and  serene.    Sentence  follows 
sentence  in  majestic  order,  each  heavy  with  meaning  but  bare 
of  ornament.     The  very  quietness  of  the  style  is  in  itself  im- 
pressive.   Hooker,  as  it  were,  never  raises  his  voice,  uses  no 
repetitions,  does  not  stamp  his  foot,  nod  his  head  or  wave  his " 
arms.     He  stands,  as  we  are  told  he  did  when  he  preached  i 
from  visible  pulpits,  quite  still,  perhaps  even  a  trifle  too  still.  ] 
But  by  the  exquisite  modulations  of  his  voice  and  the  fine* 
quaHty  of  its  tone  he  gains  effects  more  striking  than  any  that  j 
the  ordinary  rhetorical  devices  can  produce.     We  will  take,  r 
as  an  example,  the  passage  in  which  he  defines  a  law  :  | 

"  All  things  that  are  have  some  operation  not  violent  or  | 
casual.  Neither  doth  anything  ever  begin  to  exercise  the  * 
same,  without  some  fore-conceived  end  for  which  it  worketh.  - 
And  the  end  which  it  worketh  for  is  not  obtained,  unless  the  \ 
work  be  also  fit  to  obtain  it  by.  For  unto  every  end  every  j 
operation  will  not  serve.  That  which  doth  assign  unto  each  ; 
thing  the  kind,  that  which  doth  moderate  the  force  and  power,  \ 
that  which  doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  working,  \ 
that  we  term  a  I^aw.''  \ 

Or  another  beautiful  passage  on  the  same  subject :  \ 

*'  Of  I^aw  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged  than  that  her  j 
seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world  :  \ 
all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage  ;  the  very  least  j 
as  feeHng  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  i 
power :  both  Angels  and  men,  and  creatures  of  what  condi-  ' 
tion  soever,  though  each  in  different  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  i 
with  uniform  consent,  admiring  her  as  the  mother  of  their  j 
peace  and  joy."  ' 

In  1595  a  better  living,  that  of  Bishopsbourne  in  Kent,  was  j 
given  to  him.  Here  he  worked  diligently  at  the  completion  of  ; 
his  book,  interrupted  only  by  visits  from  scholars  eager  to  see  j 
192  \ 


lb 


3 

5s 

o 

(/}      o 
O     "^ 


» 


ECCLESIASTICAL    POLITY 

man  whose  rare  learning  was  famous  throughout  England  ; 
here  his  gentle,  pious,  studious  life  drew  quietly  toward 
end.  He  died  November  2,  1600.  The  fifth  book  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Polity  had  been  published  in  1597  ;  the  sixth  and 

;hth  were  pubHshed  after  his  death,  in  1648,  the  seventh  in 

62. 

In  the  chancel  of  the  beautiful  church  of  Bishopsbourne  a 
portrait  bust  of  Richard  Hooker  was  placed,  shortly  after  his 
death.  *'  It  is,"  wrote  Dean  Stanley,  "  of  the  same  style  and 
form  as  the  nearly  contemporary  one  of  Shakespeare,  in  the 
church  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  Unlike  that  more  famous 
monument  this  has  the  good  fortune  to  have  retained  the 
colour  without  whitewash.  ...  It  represents  Hooker  in  his 
college  cap,  his  hair  black,  without  a  tinge  of  grey,  his  fore- 
head high  and  broad  and  overhanging,  lively  piercing  eyes, 
deep  set  beneath  it,  his  cheeks  ruddy,  and  a  powerful  mouth." 
This  is  probably  a  portrait  of  Hooker  in  his  early  manhood,  the 
learned  scholar  who  was  the  pride  of  his  University.  But  we 
like  better  to  think  of  him  as  Izaak  Walton  has  shown  him  to 
us,  the  Hooker  of  later  years,  sitting  in  "  peace  and  privacy." 
raising  his  noble  memorial  to  the  Church  he  loved. 


193 


From  the  Death  of  Elizabeth  to 
the   Restoration 

THE  first  sixty  years  of  the  seventeenth  century  repre- 
sent an  interval  between  two  great  literary  periods, 
and  the  writings  of  the  time  possess  some  of  the 
characteristics  of  each  of  these.  During  the  reign  of  James  I 
the  Renaissance  spirit,  though  enfeebled,  was  still  operative  ; 
c-nly  it  worked  with  greater  sobriety  and  restraint,  and  through 
raan's  intellectual  rather  than  through  his  imaginative  powers. 
So  we  get  the  brilUant  philosophical  and  scientific  works  of 
I'Vancis  Bacon,  and  the  dramas  of  Ben  Jonson  somewhat 
overweighted  with  their  classical  learning. 

All  through  the  reign  the  general  interest  in  religious  ques- 
tions was  deepening,  and  soon  these  began  to  absorb  the 
attention  of  the  finest  intellects  of  the  age.  In  1625,  when 
Charles  I  succeeded  his  father,  Puritanism  had  become  so  > 

powerful  a  force  in  the  country  that  it  was  clear  it  must,  *^^ 
sooner  or  later,  have  a  large  influence  upon  the  national 
literature.  Anglicanism,  which,  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth's 
Cliurch  Settlement,  had  been  striving  to  establish  itself,  had 
been  greatly  advanced  by  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity ; 
and  the  new  king's  strong  attachment  to  the  national  Church 
raised  it  to  a  still  higher  position.  The  poems  of  Herbert, 
Crashaw,  Vaughan,  and  Sandys,  and  in  a  lesser  degree  those 
of  Robert  Herrick,  show  how  effectively  AngUcanism  was 
working  as  a  literary  force. 

There  was  also  a  group  of  Court  poets,  led  by  I^ovelace 
and  Suckling.     These  produced  a  quantity  of  pleasant  and      [/ 
tuneful  verse  that  had  much  of  the  careless  grace  of  the 
Elizabethan  lyrics,  but  little  of  their  freshness  and  spontaneity. 


'S 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE         1 

Most  of  these  singers  were  silenced  at  the  breaking  out  of  tl 
great  Civil  War  which,  by  diverting  the  energies  of  the  natio 
operated  against  the  production  of  any  really  great  work. 

The  supremacy  of  the  Puritans  closed  the  theatres,  and  i 
put  a  stop  to  dramatic  production.  It  turned  Milton  fro: 
a  poet  into  a  writer  of  violent  political  pamphlets ;  it  dro^ 
Cowley  and  Waller,  poets  of  high  repute  in  their  day,  in^ 
exile.  So  that  as  we  approach  the  end  of  this  period,  it  seer 
almost  as  if  English  literature  is  threatened  with  extinction. 


196 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   ADVANCEMENT    OF   LEARNING 

HAVE  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province."  Even 
if  we  did  not  know  who  it  was  that  said  these  words 
we  should  guess  that  he  belonged  to  the  age  in  which 
uch  large  and  splendid  utterances  were  common ;  the  age 
vhen  Spenser  dedicated  the  Faerie  Queene  to  Elizabeth  "  to 
ive  with  the  eternity  of  her  fame,"  and  when  Shakespeare  said 
)f  the  Sonnets  that  he  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton, — 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

It  was  not  boastfulness  or  vainglory  that  led  the  men  of  the 
Elizabethan  age  to  make  these  large  claims,  but  rather  a  high 
;ense  of  the  glory  and  dignity  which  belonged  to  the  work  they 
lad  set  themselves  to  do  ;  and  most  notably  was  this  the  case 
pvith  Francis  Bacon.     When,  in  a  letter  to  his  kinsman,  I^ord 
purghley,  he  made  the  proud  claim,  **  I  have  taken  all  know- 
ledge to  be  my  province,"  he  added,  "  This  is  so  fixed  in  my 
ind  as  it  cannot  be  moved."     How  true  were  his  words  his 
hole  life  showed.     It  was  not  a  stainless  life,  "  a  composition 
f  the  best  and  honour  ablest  things,"  such  as  Milton  said  the 
ife  of  a  great  writer  ought  to  be.     Bacon  was  bent  upon 
btaining  money  and  power  and  position — not  for  any  ignoble 
nd,  but  that  he  might  have  leisure  and  opportunity  to  study 
^nd  to  write.     But  his  heart  was  too  cold,  his  conception  of 
tuman  nature  too  low,  and  his  moral  fibre  too  weak  for  this 
desire  to  be  to  him  the  wholesome  incentive  that  it  was  to 
Shakespeare.     Instead,  it  made  him  time-serving  and  mean 
and  faithless — a  man  who  knew  the  right,  but  did  the  wrong. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  the  figure  of  Francis  Bacon,  as  history 

197 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

shows  it  to  us,  is  not  without  nobility,  and  even  grandeur.     Th< 
breadth  and  glory  of  his  intellectual  visions,  the  loyalty  witl 
which  he  followed  them,  the  hard  and  painful  labour  that  h( 
gave  to  their  fulfilment,  compel  admiration.     His  place  amond 
the  great  Elizabethans  is  assured. 

Strictly  speaking,  however,  Bacon,  as  a  writer,  is  not  aij 
Elizabethan.  He  was  born  in  1561,  or  to  quote  his  owr 
graceful  answer  to  the  Queen  when  she  asked  his  age,  he  wat; 
"  two  years  younger  than  Her  Majesty's  happy  reign.''  In  the 
letter  to  lyord  Burleigh,  to  which  reference  has  already  beer 
made,  he  said,  "  I  wax  now  somewhat  ancient ;  one  and  thirtj 
years  is  a  great  deal  of  sand  in  the  hour  glass,''  and  it  was  nol 
until  fourteen  years  later,  when  James  I  had  been  two  year* I 
on  the  throne,  that  he  published  the  first  instalment  of  hi.'; 
great  work.  But  its  plan  had  been  sketched  when  he  was  sj 
young  law  student  at  Gray's  Inn,  in  the  days  before  the  Armada  | 
and,  moreover,  in  tone  and  spirit  Bacon  is  entirely  Elizabethan! 
He  has  the  largeness  of  aim  and  breadth  of  conception,  the' 
daring  delight  in  adventuring  into  regions  new  and  unex-' 
plored,  which  characterized  the  generation  that,  as  he  wrote,: 
was  rapidly  passing  away.  I 

In  a  letter  belonging  to  the  last  year  of  his  life  he  looks  back( 
toward  this  early  period.  "  It  is  now  forty  years,"  he  says,) 
**  since  I  put  together  a  youthful  essay  on  these  matters,  which,i 
with  vast  confidence  I  called  by  the  high-sounding  title  The^ 
Greatest  Birth  of  Time.'*  This  was  his  earliest  effort  towardi 
the  accomplishment  of  the  great  purpose  which  had  dominated! 
his  life  and  "  in  that  purpose  my  mind  never  waxed  old,  inj 
that  long  interval  of  time  it  never  cooled."  He  designed  to! 
write  a  great  work,  which  was  to  be  called  the  Magna  In^ 
stauratio  or  Great  Instauration.  "It  is  to  be  divided,"  sa}^ 
Bacon's  biographer,  Mr.  Ellis,  "  into  six  portions,  of  whichi 
the  first  is  to  contain  a  general  survey  of  the  present  state  ol 
knowledge.  In  the  second  men  are  to  be  taught  how  to  usd 
their  understanding  aright  in  the  investigation  of  nature.  In^ 
the  third,  all  the  phenomena  of  the  universe  are  to  be  stored^ 
up  as  in  a  treasure-house,  as  the  materials  on  which  the  new< 

198  , 

I 


Sir  Francis  Bacon 

Paul  van  Somen 
Photo.  Emery  Walker  Ltd 


198 


IIdvancement  of  learning 

^lethod  is  to  be  employed.  In  the  fourth,  examples  are  to  be 
given  of  its  operation  and  of  the  results  to  which  it  leads.  The 
£fth  is  to  contain  what  Bacon  had  accomplished  in  natural 
philosophy  without  the  aid  of  his  own  method.  It  is  therefore 
less  important  than  the  rest,  and  Bacon  declares  that  he 
will  not  bind  himself  to  the  conclusions  which  it  contains. 
Moreover,  its  value  will  altogether  cease  when  the  sixth 
part  can  be  completed,  wherein  will  be  set  forth  the  new 
philosophy — the  results  of  the  application  of  the  new 
method  to  all  the  phenomena  of  the  universe.  But  to 
complete  this,  the  last  part  of  the  Instauratio,  Bacon  does 
not  hope." 

Only  a  very  small  part  of  this  plan  was,  in  fact,  completed. 
Bacon's  time  was  mainly  taken  up  with  affairs  of  State,  and 
with  the  duties  of  the  various  oflSces  which  at  different  times  he 
held.  But  amidst  all  the  press  of  business  he  managed  to  steal 
some  hours  for  the  work  he  loved  ;  and  there  were  intervals 
when  he  was  out  of  favour  or  out  of  office.  Such  an  interval 
came  in  1605  when,  having  finished  his  work  as  a  Commissioner 
for  the  Union  of  England  and  Scotland  in  December  1604,  he 
had  no  further  pubUc  work  to  occupy  him  until  Parliament 
met  in  November  1605.  He  used  this  time  to  finish  the  first 
part  of  his  great  work,  the  Two  Books  of  the  Advancement  of 
Learning.  This,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  he  wrote  in 
English.  Most  of  his  learned  works  were  written  in  I^atin, 
and  such  as  were  not — the  Essays,  the  History  of  Henry  VII  and 
the  Advancement — he  was  careful  to  cause  to  be  translated 
into  the  '  general  language  '  as  soon  as  might  be.  "  For  these 
modern  languages,"  he  wrote  to  one  of  his  correspondents,  "  will 
at  one  time  or  another  play  the  bankrupt  with  books,  and  since 
I  have  lost  much  time  with  this  age,  I  would  be  glad  if  God 
would  give  me  leave  to  recover  it  with  posterity  "  ;  and  when 
the  Advancement  was  afterwards  translated  into  I^atin  he  sent 
a  copy  of  it  to  Prince  Charles,  with  the  words,  "  It  is  a  book 
that  will  live,  and  be  a  citizen  of  the  world,  as  EngUsh  books 
are  not." 

Bacon  hurried  over  the  last  stages  of  the  Advancement  because 

199 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  wished  to  bring  it,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  the  notice  of  James  I. 
The  King  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  scholar,  and  would, 
Bacon  thought,  be  ready  to  give  sympathy  and  encouragement 
to  the  great  scheme  when  it  was  set  before  him.     The  first 
book,  therefore,  opens  with  an  address  to  the  King,  in  which 
flattery,  as  open  and  extravagant  as  that  which  the  poets  of 
the  previous  reign  addressed  to  Elizabeth,  is  mixed  with  the 
noble  and  sincere  expression  of  the  scholar's  devotion  to  learning. 
*'  I^eaving  aside  the  other  parts  of  your  virtue  and  fortune,"  he 
says,   "  I  have  been  touched,  yea,  and  possessed  with  an 
extreme  wonder  at  those  your  virtues  and  faculties,  which  the 
Philosophers  call  intellectual ;   the  largeness  of  your  capacity, 
the  faithfulness  of  your  memory,  the  swiftness  of  your  appre- 
hension, the  penetration  of  your  judgment,  and  the  facility 
and  order  of  your  elocution."     Then  after  a  great  deal  more 
flattery,  in  which  the  King's  intellectual  qualities  are  ex- 
tolled. Bacon  goes  on  to  say  that  such  a  ruler  deserves,  "  in 
some  solid  work  a  fixed  memorial  and  immortal  monument." 
*'  Therefore  I  did  conclude  with  myself,  that  I  could  not  make 
unto  your  Majesty  a  better  oblation  than  of  some  treatise 
tending  to  that  end,  whereof  the  sum  will  consist  of  these  two 
parts  ;   the  former,  concerning  the  excellency  of  learning  and 
knowledge,  and  the  excellency  of  the  merit  and  true  glory 
in  the  augmentation  and  propagation  thereof  :  the  latter,  what 
the  particular  acts  and  works  are,  which  have  been  embraced 
and  undertaken  for  the  advancement  of  learning ;    and  again, 
what  defects  and  undervalues  I  find  in  such  particular  acts: 
to  the  end  that  though  I  cannot  positively  or  affirmatively 
advise  your  Majesty,  or  propound  unto   you    framed  par- 
ticulars, yet  I  may  excite  your  princely  cogitations  to  visit 
the  excellent  treasure  of  your  own  mind,  and  thence  to  extract 
particulars  for  this  purpose,  agreeable  to  your  magnanimity 
and  wisdom." 

The  plan  thus  set  down  Bacon  faithfully  followed  out  in 
detail ;  and  he  produced  a  book  which  is  not  only  memorable 
in  the  history  of  science,  but  has  a  still  more  important  place 
in  the  history  of  EngUsh  prose     The  style  is  not  the  style  of 

200 


ADVANCEMENT    OF    LEARNING 

Hooker,  with  grand,  rolling  finished  periods  and  majestic 
harmonies.  The  language  is  completely  dominated  by  the 
subject  and  the  arrangement  under  headings  and  sub-headings 
interferes  with  the  regular  flow  of  the  whole.  But,  in  spite 
of  these  things,  the  Advancement  is  a  noble  piece  of  English 
prose.  "  It  is  a  book,"  says  Dean  Church,  *'  which  we  can  never 
open  without  coming  on  some  noble  interpretation  of  the  realities 
of  nature  or  the  mind  ;  some  unexpected  discovery  of  that 
quick  and  keen  eye  which  arrests  us  by  its  truth ;  some 
felicitous  and  unthought-of  illustration,  yet  so  natural  as 
almost  to  be  doomed  to  become  a  commonplace  ;  some  bright 
touch  of  his  incorrigible  imaginativeness,  ever  ready  to  force 
itself  in  amid  the  driest  details  of  his  argument." 

Among  the  manuscripts  of  Bacon  that  have  been  preserved 
to  our  own  time  are  some  which  contain  notes  and  jottings  for 
future  use,  and  these  are  of  extreme  interest  as  illustrating 
the  manner  in  which  he  worked.  He  wrote  down  everything 
that  he  thought  might  be  useful  in  the  way  of  illustration  or  of 
ornament.  Proverbs,  anecdotes,  jokes,  fragments  of  dialogue, 
witty  or  pointed  remarks,  turns  of  speech  which  supply  a 
telling  way  of  opening  or  closing  a  paragraph — all  these  are 
recorded.  There  are  sets  of  quotations  bearing  on  special 
subjects,  observations  on  particular  faults  or  virtues,  maxims 
bearing  upon  a  branch  of  conduct  or  a  department  of  business — 
all  grouped  together.  Many  of  these  materials  are  used  over 
and  over  again  in  his  published  works.  In  the  Advancement  he 
uses  as  part  of  his  argument  to  prove  the  high  esteem  in  which 
learning  should  be  held  an  illustration  to  which  he  returned 
time  after  time  in  later  works,  "  The  Glory  of  God,'*  he  quotes, 
"  is  to  conceal  a  thing,  hut  the  glory  of  the  king  is  to  find  it  out  ;  as 
if,  according  to  the  innocent  play  of  children,  the  Divine  Majesty 
took  delight  to  hide  his  works  to  the  end  to  have  them  found 
out ;  and  as  if  kings  could  not  obtain  a  greater  honour  than  to 
be  God's  playfellows  in  that  game."  But  this  repetition  is 
not  due  to  any  poverty  of  invention  or  narrowness  of  range. 
On  the  contrary,  an  examination  of  the  comparisons  and 
metaphors  used  in  the  two  books  of  the  Advancement  reveals 

201 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

a  delightful  variety  and  originality.  "  Behaviour/'  he  says, 
"  seemeth  to  me  as  a  garment  of  the  mind,  and  to  have  the 
conditions  of  a  garment.  For  it  ought  to  be  made  in  fashion  ; 
it  ought  not  to  be  too  curious ;  it  ought  to  be  shaped  so  as  to 
set  forth  any  good  making  of  the  mind  and  hide  any  deformity  ; 
and  above  all,  it  ought  not  to  be  too  strait  or  restrained  for 
exercise  or  motion.'*  He  defends  himself  against  those  who 
would  decry  learning  in  that  it  gives  a  knowledge  of  evil  as 
well  as  of  good  by  reference  to  the  fable  of  the  basilisk.  "  For 
as  the  fable  goeth  of  the  basilisk,  that  if  he  see  you  first,  you 
die  for  it ;  but  if  you  see  him  first,  he  dieth  :  so  is  it  with  deceits 
and  evil  arts  ;  which  if  they  be  first  espied  they  leese  their  life  ; 
but  if  they  prevent,  they  endanger."  He  illustrates  the 
growth  of  a  man  in  virtue  in  the  following  beautiful  passage  : 
"  For  if  these  two  things  be  supposed  that  a  man  set  before  him 
honest  and  good  ends,  and  again,  that  he  be  resolute,  constant 
and  true  unto  them  ;  it  will  follow  that  he  shall  mould  himself 
into  all  virtue  at  once.  And  this  is  indeed  like  the  work  of 
nature  ;  whereas  the  other  course  is  like  the  work  of  the  hand. 
For  as  when  a  carver  makes  an  image,  he  shapes  only  that 
part  whereupon  he  worketh :  as  if  he  be  upon  the  face,  that 
part  which  shall  be  the  body  is  but  a  rude  stone  still,  till  such 
times  as  he  comes  to  it.  But  contrariwise  when  nature  makes 
a  flower  or  living  creature  she  f ormeth  rudiments  of  all  the  parts 
at  one  time.  So  in  obtaining  virtue  by  habit,  while  a  man 
practiseth  temperance,  he  doth  not  profit  much  to  fortitude, 
nor  the  like  :  but  when  he  dedicateth  and  applieth  himself  to 
good  ends,  look,  what  virtue  soever  the  pursuit  and  passage 
toward  those  ends  doth  commend  unto  him,  he  is  invested 
of  a  precedent  disposition  to  conform  himself  thereunto. 
Which  state  of  mind  Aristotle  doth  excellently  express  himself 
that  it  ought  not  to  be  called  virtuous,  but  divine." 

The  Advancement  failed  to  kindle  in  King  James  the  en- 
thusiasm which  Bacon  had  so  confidently  expected.  James's 
learning  was  of  the  solid,  conventional  order,  and  his  mind 
was  shrewd  rather  than  brilliant.  He  saw  little  that  was 
attractive  in  the  great  prospect  that  Bacon  opened  out  before 

202 


IpADVANCEMENT    OF    LEARNING 

r  him,  and  he  distrusted  Bacon's  splendid  promises  of  glory 
I  to  be  gained  by  a  king  who  would  prove  himself  a  true  friend 
I  to  learning.  For  the  time  Bacon's  great  literary  venture 
!     remained  unappreciated  and  almost  unknown. 

But  he  was  not  disheartened.  The  splendid  courage  and 
perseverance  which  had  brought  him  so  far  on  his  way  were 
unaffected  by  disappointment  or  neglect.  He  took  up  his  work 
again,  and  gave  to  the  production  of  his  next  book  the  leisure 
moments  which  he  could  gain  through  the  following  fifteen 
years.  During  these  years  he  rose  to  high  honour  in  his  pro- 
fession. In  1618  he  became  I^ord  Chancellor  and  Baron 
Verulam.  In  1620  his  Novum  Organum,  the  second  part  of  his 
great  work  was  published. 

In  this  book  Bacon  set  forth  in  detail  the  great  plan  of 
which  some  indications  had  been  given  in  the  Advancement. 
It  professed  to  expound  a  method  by  means  of  which  man  might 
learn  the  secrets  of  the  material  world — to  be  in  fact,  a  key  to 
all  the  sciences.  The  exact  importance  of  this  work  in  the 
history  of  science  is  a  matter  upon  which  critics  are  disagreed. 
It  is  generally  allowed,  however,  that  it  falls  far  short  of  the 
claims  that  its  author  makes  for  it.  As  a  practical  guide  to 
scientific  investigation  it  is  almost  useless. 

Yet  Bacon  is  awarded,  by  almost  universal  consent,  an 
honoured  place  among  the  pioneers  of  science,  and  from  his 
work  men  date  the  beginning  of  the  modem  era.  '  To  him 
belongs  the  great  merit  of  having  set  forth  clearly  and 
eloquently  the  truth  that  scientific  research  must  depend 
upon  patient,  faithful  observation  of  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
that  close  examination  and  careful  experiment  must  underlie 
all  theories  and  build  up  all  chains  of  reasoning.  He  saw  how 
men  had  been  led  astray  by  their  neglect  of  this  simple  rule, 
and  he  tried  to  bring  them  back  to  the  only  path  by  which 
they  could  arrive  at  truth.  "  For  we  copy  the  sin  of  our  first 
parents  while  we  suffer  for  it.  They  wished  to  be  like  God, 
but  their  posterity  wish  to  be  even  greater.  For  we  create 
worlds,  we  direct  and  domineer  over  nature,  we  will  have  it 
that  all  things  are  as  in  our  folly  we  think  they  should  be,  not 

203 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

as  seems  fittest  to  the  Divine  wisdom,  or  as  they  are  found  to  be 
in  fact ;  and  I  know  not  whether  we  more  distort  the  facts  of 
nature  or  of  our  own  wits."  He  entreats  men  "  to  approach 
with  humility  and  veneration  to  unroll  the  volume  of  Creation, 
to  linger  and  meditate  therein,  and  with  minds  washed  clean 
from  opinions  to  study  it  in  purity  and  integrity.  For  this  is 
that  sound  and  language  which  '  went  forth  into  all  lands,'  and 
did  not  incur  the  confusion  of  Babel ;  this  should  men  study 
to  be  perfect  in,  and  becoming  again  as  Httle  children  con- 
descend to  take  the  alphabet  of  it  into  their  hands,  and  spare 
no  pains  to  search  and  unravel  the  interpretation  thereof,  but 
pursue  it  strenuously  and  persevere  even  unto  death." 

Less  than  six  months  after  the  Novum  Organum  was  pub- 
lished came  Bacon's  fall.  He  was  accused  of  corruption  in  his 
office  of  judge,  was  fined  £40,000,  and  imprisoned  in  the  Tower 
during  the  King's  pleasure.  The  fine  was  remitted,  and  after 
two  days'  imprisonment  Bacon  was  released.  But  his  public 
career  was  over.  How  far  he  was  guilty  of  the  charges  brought 
against  him  is  a  question  which  cannot  here  be  discussed.  His 
own  confession  shows  that  he  was  not  entirely  innocent.  Five 
years  of  life  remained  to  him,  and  he  spent  these  in  retirement, 
still  working  unweariedly  and  courageously  on  the  great 
scheme  which  in  his  youth  he  had  set  before  himself.  He  pub- 
lished his  De  Augmentis,  which  is  the  Advancement  translated 
into  Latin  and  much  enlarged,  his  History  of  Henry  VII,  a 
complete  edition  of  his  Essays,  and  some  further  papers  in- 
tended to  form  part  of  his  great  work.  He  died  on  April  9, 
1626. 

"  For  my  name  and  memory,"  he  said  in  his  will,  "  I  leave 
it  to  men's  charitable  speeches,  and  to  foreign  nations,  and  the 
next  ages."  The  "next  ages"  have  justified  his  implied  con- 
fidence. They  have  given  him  an  honoured  place  among 
scientists,  and  they  have  recognized  his  Essays,  his  History  of 
Henry  VII,  and  his  Advancement  of  Learning  as  belonging  to  the 
great  English  classics. 


204 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE   ALCHEMIST 

WHEN  Shakespeare  had  been  some  twelve  years  in 
London,  and  had  gained  for  himself  a  leading  posi- 
tion among  the  actors  and  dramatists  of  his  time, 
there  was  sent  in  one  day  to  the  managers  of  The  Theatre, 
Shoreditch,  a  new  play  called  Every  Man  in  His  Humour,  by 
Ben  Jonson.  The  author  was  not  unknown,  for  although  he 
was  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  years  old,  he  had  been  living 
in  London  for  some  years,  and  had  written  several  plays. 
Every  Man  in  His  Humour  was,  however,  so  different  in  its 
character  from  the  comedies  that  then  held  the  stage  that  the 
managers  hesitated  to  accept  it.  The  influence  of  Shakespeare, 
so  says  tradition,  turned  the  scale,  and  the  play  was  produced. 
Shakespeare  acted  in  it,  taking,  we  think,  the  part  of  Knowell. 
It  had  a  great  success,  and  raised  Jonson  above  the  crowd  of 
needy  playwrights  struggling  for  pubUc  favour,  to  a  place  next 
below  Shakespeare's. 

But  Jonson  had  not  the  wholesome  happy  temperament  of 
the  greater  dramatist — the  temperament  that  grows  sweeter, 
kinder,  and  more  genial  in  the  sunshine  of  success.  Nor  had 
he  Shakespeare's  charm  of  manner  and  comeliness  of  person. 
He  was  vain,  quarrelsome  and  obstinately  set  on  his  own 
opinions,  brusque  and  rough  in  his  intercourse  with  other  men, 
of  a  clumsy  and  unwieldy  figure  and  rugged  features.  These 
were  quahties  which  became  more  quickly  apparent  than  did 
his  honesty  of  purpose,  his  manly  firmness  of  character,  his 
true  generosity  of  soul.  His  hot  temper  involved  him  in  con- 
stant disputes.  A  few  months  after  the  appearance  of  Every 
Man  in  His  Humour  he  fought  a  duel  with  an  actor,  Gabriel 

205 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Spencer,  whom  he  killed.  He  was  imprisoned  for  a  short  time 
and  only  escaped  further  punishment  by  pleading  his  '  benefit 
of  clergy/  A  little  later,  when  Jonson  had  strengthened  his 
reputation  by  the  production  of  another  comed3%  Every  Man 
Out  of  His  Humour,  the  envy  of  less  successful  playwrights 
and  his  own  boastful  arrogance  brought  on  another  quarrel. 
Dekker  and  Marston  led  the  forces  of  the  theatres  against 
Jonson,  and  many  hard  words  were  spoken  on  either  side. 
Shakespeare,  when  Robert  Greene  had  made  a  spiteful  attack 
upon  him,  had  gone  calmly  on  his  way  and  said  nothing.  But 
such  a  course  was  impossible  to  the  irritable  temper  of  Ben 
Jonson,  and  his  two  next  plays,  Cynthia's  Revels  and  The 
Poetaster  remain  to  show  with  what  vigour  he  struck  back  when 
he  was  attacked. 

Jonson  next  tried  his  hand  at  tragedy,  and  in  1603  his  play 
of  Sejanus  was  produced  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  Com- 
pany, with  Shakespeare  as  one  of  the  actors.  It  was  not 
very  successfuL  Its  author's  excessive  anxiety  to  make  it 
historically  correct  gave  it  an  over-learned  air,  and  his  careful 
fidelity  to  classic  models  made  it  too  rigid  in  structure  for  the 
taste  of  an  Elizabethan  audience.  Jonson  wisely  returned  to 
comedy,  and  wrote  in  collaboration  with  Chapman  and 
Marston  the  play  Eastward  Hoe  I  which  deals  in  a  delightfully 
realistic  fashion  with  the  lighter  side  of  I/ondon  citizen  life.  It 
brought  its  authors,  however,  into  serious  trouble.  King 
James  was  now  on  the  throne,  and  some  reflections  contained  in 
the  play  upon  the  *  industrious  Scots,'  aroused  his  ire.  The 
three  authors  suffered  a  short  imprisonment  but  escaped  the 
mutilation  which  was  sometimes  the  punishment  for  offences 
of  this  nature.  Shortly  afterward  Jonson  seems  to  have 
managed  to  make  his  peace  with  the  King,  for  he  was  employed 
in  the  production  of  a  number  of  masques  and  Court  entertain- 
ments which  proved  extremely  profitable  to  him,  and  he 
retained  the  royal  favour  till  the  end  of  King  James's  life. 

Jonson  now  entered  upon  the  most  successful  and  happy 
period  of  his  career.  During  the  next  ten  years  he  wrote  his 
four  greatest  comedies — Volpone  (1605),  The  Silent  Woman 
206 


Ben  Jonson 

Gerard  Honthorst 


306 


I 


THE    ALCHEMIST 

(1609),  The  Alchemist  (1610),  and  Bartholomew  Fair  (1614). 
AH  of  these  are  masterpieces  of  their  kind.  The  Alchemist 
perhaps  stands  first,  by  virtue  of  its  wonderfully  constructed 
plot.  The  threads  of  a  highly  complex  action  are  woven  into 
a  smooth  and  perfect  whole  with  an  art  which  has  been  the 
admiration  of  critics  from  Jonson's  day  to  our  own.  The 
play  illustrates  all  its  author's  most  characteristic  qualities. 
It  is  a  fine  example  of  the  *  comedy  of  humours '  which  he 
introduced — the  word  '  humour  '  being  used  in  its  Elizabethan 
sense  of  a  predominating  trait  caused  by  the  presence  in  the 
body  of  a  large  quantity  of  one  particular  *  humour '  or  fluid. 
It  is  realistic,  forsaking  the  fanciful  and  romantic  themes 
that  Ben  Jonson  scorned,  and  deahng,  as  he  affirms,  with  life 
as  it  really  is.  It  follows  the  rules  of  classical  drama,  and 
observes  the  "  Unities  of  Time,  Place,  and  Action."  In  his 
prologue  to  Every  Afdn  in  Hts  Humour  Ben  Jonson  had  set 
forth  his  views  of  what  comedy  should  be.  The  author  of  the 
play,  he  says : 

Hath  not  so  loved  the  stage. 
As  he  dare  serve  the  ill  customs  of  the  age. 
Or  purchase  your  dehght  at  such  a  rate, 
As,  for  it,  he  himself  must  justly  hate  : 
To  make  a  child  now  swaddled,  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  beard  and  weed, 
Past  three-score  years  ;  or,  with  three  rusty  swords. 
And  help  of  some  few  foot  and  half -foot  words. 
Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars. 
And  in  the  Tyring  house  bring  wounds  to  scars. 
He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleased  to  see 
One  such  to-day,  as  other  plays  should  be  ; 
Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas. 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down  the  boys  to  please  ; 
Nor  tiimble  squib  is  seen  to  make  afear'd 
The  gentlewomen  ;  nor  rolled  bullet  heard 
To  say,  it  thunders  ;  nor  tempestuous  drum 
Rumbles,  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come  ; 
But  deeds,  and  language,  such  as  men  do  use. 
And  persons,  such  as  comedy  would  choose. 
When  she  would  show  an  image  of  the  times. 
And  sport  with  human  follies,  not  with  crimes. 

Jonson's  *  sport '  is  somewhat  heavy,  and  his  humour  a 
Httle  grim.  His  work  has  none  of  the  lightness  and  grace  that 
distinguish  the  work  of  the  early  EHzabethans.     Its  merit  lies 

207 


/ 


xj 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

in  Its  strong,  robust  manly  tone,  and  the  vigour  of  its  concep- 
tion and  execution. 

In  1610,  when  The  Alchemist  was  first  produced,  quacks  and  | 
pretended  magicians  were  to  be  found  in  such  numbers  in  i 
I/Ondon  that  they  had  become  a  serious  public  nuisance.  \ 
Jonson  directed  his  satire  against  their  knavery  and  the  fooHsh  [ 
creduUty  of  those  who  consulted  them,  with  the  result,  we  \ 
are  told,  that  the  trade  of  the  alchemists  became  far  less  \ 
profitable.  The  play  tells  the  story  of  a  pretended  alchemist,  ^ 
his  confederates  and  his  dupes.  The  scene  is  laid  in  lyondon  \ 
during  a  season  in  which  the  plague  has  been  raging  in  the  city.  ^ 
Ivovewit,  a  wealthy  gentleman,  has  fled  from  the  infection  and  j 
left  his  house  in  charge  of  his  butler.  Face.  Face,  who  is  a  witty,  | 
impudent,  amusing  rascal,  meets  the  alchemist.  Subtle,  as  he| 
afterward  reminds  him  ^ 

At  Pie-corner,  ': 

Taking  your  meal  of  steam  in  from  cook's  stalls, 
Where,  like  the  father  of  hunger,  you  did  walk. 


The  two  enter  into  an  agreement,  and  procure  the  services  of  j 
a  female  accomplice,  Dol  Common.  Subtle  takes  up  his  abode| 
in  I/Ovewit's  house,  sets  up  his  forge  and  all  the  apparatus  of  his'j 
deception,  and  awaits  the  dupes  whom  it  is  the  business  of| 
Face  and  Dol  Common  to  send  in.  Face  is  by  turns  a  swagger-l 
ing  captain,  rufiiing  it  in  the  places  of  public  resort,  and  the] 
assistant  of  Subtle  in  his  mysteries.  The  procession  of  dupes-^ 
begins  with  a  lawyer's  clerk,  Dapper.  "I  lighted  on  him,"- 
says  Face,  "  last  night,  in  Holborn,  at  the  Dagger."  The  clerk^ 
is  given  to  betting,  and  Face  has  persuaded  him  that  the] 
alchemist  can  provide  him  with  a  '  familiar '  who  will  make- 
him  successful  in  all  his  ventures.  Him  the  two  accomplices; 
fool  to  the  utmost.  Face  pretending  the  greatest  reverence  f orj 
Subtle  and  lauding  his  mysterious  powers.  They  persuade; 
poor  Dapper  that  the  Queen  of  Fairy  claims  him  for  herj 
nephew,  and  is  anxious  to  see  him,  they  promise  him  a  famiharj 
that  shall  enable  him  to  "  win  up  all  the  money  in  the  town,"' 
and  *'  blow  up  gamester  after  gamester  as  they  do  crackers  in  a 
puppet  play,"  and  on  this  understanding  he  parts  with  all  thei 
208 


THE    ALCHEMIST 

money  he  has  about  him.  He  is  to  come  again  that  noon,  and 
meanwhile  is  to  prepare  himself  by  fasting  and  purification  for 
the  mystic  rites.     Next  comes  Abel  Drugger,  a  seller  of  tobacco. 

I  am  a  young  beginner,  and  am  building 
Of  a  new  shop,  an't  like  your  worship,  just 
At  comer  of  a  street  : — Here  is  the  plot  on  't — 
And  I  would  know  by  art,  sir,  of  your  worship, 
Which  way  I  should  make  my  door,  by  necromancy. 
And  where  my  shelves  ;  and  which  should  be  for  boxes. 
And  which  for  pots.     I  would  be  glad  to  thrive,  sir. 
And  I  was  wish'd  to  your  worship  by  a  gentleman. 
One  Captain  Face,  that  says  you  know  men's  planets 
And  their  good  angels  and  their  bad. 

Abel  receives  a  learned  answer,  and  goes  away  happy — 
with  empty  pockets,  and  an  engagement  to  come  again.  A 
more  notable  figure  now  appears,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon.  With 
him  comes  Pertinax  Surly,  a  gamester.  Sir  Epicure  desires  no 
less  than  the  philosopher's  stone,  which  can  convert  all  metals 
into  gold.  His  visions  of  wealth  to  come  are  dazzUng  in  their 
magnificence,  and  he  believes  that  they  are  on  the  point  of 
being  realized. 

This  is  the  day,  wherein  to  all  my  friends 
I  will  pronoimce  the  happy  word,  be  rich  1 

Surly  is  incredulous,  but  Face,  now  disguised  as  a  servant, 
and  Subtle,  in  his  grave  alchemist's  habit,  so  work  upon  Sir 
Epicure  that  his  friend's  warnings  fall  useless,  and  he  goes 
away  convinced  that  the  operation  is  nearly  completed,  and  not 
regretting  the  ten  pounds  he  has  given  to  the  alchemist  to  buy 
new  materials  required  in  the  work.  Scarcely  has  he  gone 
when  another  knock  is  heard,  and  there  enters  a  messenger,  one 
Ananias,  from  the  church  at  Amsterdam.  Subtle  and  Face 
combine  to  mystify  him  by  talking  unmeaning  jargon,  about 

Ars  sacra 
Or  chrysopoeia  or  spagyrica, 
Or  the  pamphysick  or  panarchick  knowledge, 

and  so  on.  But  Ananias  is  not  overawed,  and  delivers  his 
message,  which  is  that  the  brethren  will  not  venture  more 
than  the  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  they  have  already  given 

o  209 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

until  they  see  some  result  from  the  work.     At  this  Subtle   J 
pretends  to  fly  into  a  rage  and  drives  Ananias  forth,  bidding  him  i 

Send  your  elders  i 

Hither  to  make  atonement  for  you  quickly,  j 

And  give  me  satisfaction  ;  or  out  goes  1 

The  fire  ;  and  down  the  alembics,  and  the  furnace.  ...  ; 

All  hope  of  rooting  out  the  bishops  ] 

Or  the  antichristian  hierarchy,  shall  perish,  : 

If  they  stay  three-score  minutes.  | 

He  speedily  returns  with  a  pastor  of  the  church,  Tribulation  ; 
Wholesome,  whom  Subtle  soon  persuades  of  his  power  to  1 
supply  the  Church  with  a  talisman,  i 

To  pay  an  army  in  the  field,  to  buy  \ 

The  King  of  France  out  of  his  realm,  or  Spain  ■ 

Out  of  his  Indies.  ...  ^ 

Even  the  med'cnal  use  shall  make  you  a  faction,  ] 

And  party  in  the  realm.     As  put  the  case,  J 

That  some  great  man  in  state,  he  have  the  gout,  < 

Why  you  but  send  three  drops  of  your  elixir,  j 

You  help  him  straight :  there  you  have  made  a  friend.  \ 

Tribulation  is  induced  to  give  money  for  more  coal  and  ■ 
other  necessaries.  ; 

The  procession  of  dupes  is  concluded  by  KastrU,  a  young  man  ] 
who  has  just  inherited  a  fortune  of  three  thousand  a  year,  ; 


A  gentleman  newly  warm  in  his  land,  , 

Scarce  cold  in  his  one  and  twenty,  ; 

who  wishes  to  learn  how  to  carry  himself  as  a  gallant  about  ] 
town.  He  comes  with  his  sister,  a  rich  young  widow,  who  wishes  \ 
for  a  second  husband.  How  all  these  return  to  I^ovewit's  house  ^ 
Sit  the  times  appointed,  the  compUcations  that  ensue,  the; 
sudden  return  of  the  master  of  the  house.  Face's  hasty  change 
back  to  his  original  role,  of  butler,  his  attempts  to  deceive : 
his  master  and  their  failure,  his  confession  and  league  withi 
IvOvewit,  the  threatening  of  Dol  Common  and  Subtle  with  the  j 
terrors  of  the  law,  their  hasty  flight,  and  the  division  of  the] 
spoils  left  behind — ^including  the  widow,  who  becomes  Mrs. 
lyovewit — these  bring  the  comedy  to  a  triumphant  conclusion.  , 
The  Alchemist  does  not  appear  to  have  had,  at  first,  anj 
altogether  favourable  reception.  Perhaps  it  hit  too  hard  at  the! 
210  I 

I 


IP  THE    ALCHEMIST 

ollies  of  some  in  the  audience.  The  poet  Herrick,  who  was 
one  of  the  band  of  young  men  who  proudly  called  themselves 
the '  sons '  of  Ben  Jonson,  speaks  indignantly  of  the  *  ignorance  ' 
of  those 

Who  once  hist 
At  thy  nneqnall'd  play  the  Alchemist. 

Soon,  however,  it  triumphed  over  this  temporary  prejudice 
and  became  one  of  the  most  popular  plays  of  the  day.  When 
the  theatres  were  re-opened  at  the  Restoration,  it  was  revived, 
and  Pepys  notes  in  his  diary  that  he  went  twice  during  the 
summer  of  1661  to  see  that  "  most  incomparable  play  The 
Alchemist." 

We  do  not  know  when  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  became 
personally  acquainted — whether  before  or  after  the  production 
of  Every  Man  in  His  Humour.  But  we  know  that  for  many 
years  they  lived  on  terms  of  close  friendship.  Jonson  has 
been  charged  with  a  spiteful  jealousy  of  his  greater  comrade, 
but  careful  inquiry  has  shown  that  there  is  no  foundation  for 
the  charge.  He  is  known  to  have  given  some  unfavourable 
criticisms  of  Shakespeare's  works,  but  in  this  there  was  no 
personal  feeling.  Jonson  had  a  definite  theory  of  the  art  of 
dramatic  writing,  and  was  quick — possibly  a  little  too  quick — 
to  denounce  work  not  done  in  accordance  with  it.  But  no 
praise  could  be  more  generous  and  more  discriminating  than 
that  which  he  gave  to  Shakespeare,  in  the  lines  that  he  wrote 
for  the  first  folio  of  the  collected  plays,  in  1623. 

....   I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 

As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much.  .  .  . 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show 

To  whom  alj  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 

Such  is  the  strain  in  which  he  sings  of  his  '  master  *  Shake- 
speare. "  Within  a  very  few  years  of  Shakespeare's  death," 
says  Sir  Sidney  I^e,  "  Sir  Nicholas  I^'Kstrange,  an  industrious 
collector  of  anecdotes,  put  into  writing  an  Anecdote  .  .  . 
attesting  the  amicable  relations  that  habitually  subsisted 
between  Shakespeare  and   Jonson.     '  Shakespeare,'   ran   the 

211 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  \ 

story,  *  was  godfather  to  one  of  Ben  Jonson's  children,  and 
after  the  christening,  being  in  a  deep  study,  Jonson  came  to  I 
cheer  him  up  and  asked  him  why  he  was  so  melancholy.  1 
'  No,  faith,  Ben,'  says  he,  '  not  I,  but  I  have  been  considering  a 
great  while  what  should  be  the  fittest  gift  for  me  to  bestow  I 
upon  my  godchild,  and  I  have  resolved  at  last.'     '  I  pr'y  thee,  ! 
what  ?  '  sayes  he.     *  I'  faith,  Ben,  I'll  e'en  give  him  a  dozen, 
good  Lattin  spoons,  and  thou  shalt  translate  them.'  "    I^atten,  j 
it   should   be   remembered,    is    a   mixed    metal   resembling 
brass.  j 

Of  the  celebrated  meetings  between  the  two  poets  at  the  j 
Mermaid  Tavern,  Bread  Street,  Thomas  Fuller  has  given  us  \ 
an   account.      "  Many   were   the   wit-combats   betwixt   him 
[Shakespeare]  and  Ben  Jonson,  which  two  I  behold  like  a  j 
Spanish  great  galleon   and    an  English  man-of-war;    Master  j 
Jonson  (Uke  the  former)  was  built  far  higher  in  learning,  solid  j 
but  slow  in  his  performances.    Shakespeare,  with  the  English 
man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds  by  j 
the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention." 

!Later,  after  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  the  meeting-place  of  , 
the  wits  was  changed  from  the  Mermaid  to  the  Apollo  (or  big  \ 
room)  of  the  Devil  Tavern,  Temple  Bar.  Here  Jonson  reigned  i 
as  a  king  among  a  band  of  loyal  and  devoted  subjects.  The 
younger  poets  of  the  day  gathered  round  him  and  offered  him  \ 
enthusiastic  homage.  They  have  preserved  for  us  the  memory  ; 
of  the  old  poet  grown  corpulent  and  unwieldy  with  age,  of  his  \ 
*  rocky  face,'  the  stoop  of  his  great  shoulders,  his  loud  voice  \ 
and  hectoring  manner.  We  see  him  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  ^ 
table  while  toasts  were  drunk  and  witty  jests  went  round,  and  ; 
the  mirth  grew  faster  and  more  furious  as  the  night  advanced.  \ 
Among  the  company  was  a  young  man  named  Robert  Herrick,  j 
son  of  a  goldsmith  of  Cheapside,  who  had  lately  left  St.  John's  j 
College,  Cambridge,  and  settled  in  I^ondon.  He  was  one  of  I 
the  most  devoted  of  the  poet's  *  sons,'  and  highly  favoured  by  I 
the  '  master  '  for  his  wit,  his  good-fellowship  and  his  poetic  | 
talent.  He  it  is  who  has  told  us,  in  the  poems  addressed  to  ; 
212  -! 


I 

leasts. 


THE    ALCHEMIST 

n   Jonson,  much  of    what    we    know  about  those    '  lyric 


Where  we  such  clusters  had. 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ;  j 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine  i 

Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine  | 

My  Ben  1 

Or  come  again  : 

Or  send  to  us, 

Thy  wit's  great  overplus  ;  j 

But  teach  us  yet  1 

Wisely  to  husband  it  r                  " 

Lest  we  that  talent  spend,  «                    ^ 

And  having  once  brought  to  an  end  \ 

That  precious  stock ;  the  store  J 

Of  such  a  wit  the  world  should  have  no  more.  ' 

Ben  Jonson  died  in  1637,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  ^ 

Abbey,  where  his  grave  bears  the  inscription,  best  known             \ 

perhaps  of  all  that  have  been  written  on  the  graves  of  poets —  | 

"  O  rare  Ben  Jonson  !  "  J 


213         i 

J 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE    TEMPLE 

HISTORY  shows  us  the  reign  of  Charles  I  as  a  long  grim 
struggle  between  the  Parliament  and  the  King — a 
struggle  which  grew  ever  more  bitter  and  more  intense 
up  to  the  closing  tragedy  of  January  1649.  But  the  Hterature 
of  the  period — until  the  actual  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War — 
reflects  little  of  this  strife.  Milton,  in  his  studious  retreat  at 
Horton,  was  writing  his  dehghtful  pastoral  poems  U Allegro 
and  //  Penseroso.  Herrick  in  his  lovely  Devonshire  parsonage 
was  celebrating  the  deHghts  of  the  once  '  loathed  west/  Of 
the  lesser  poets  two  main  groups  may  be  distinguished.  The 
first  consisted  of  the  gay  and  brilUant  company  that  gathered 
at  the  Court,  of  whom  lyovelace  and  Suckling  were  the  chief. 
These  paid  but  small  heed  to  grave  matters  of  State.  They 
lounged  about  Whitehall,  and  showed  themselves,  exquisitely 
attired,  in  all  the  fashionable  resorts  of  the  day.  They  were 
gallants  of  the  new  school,  who  had  discarded  the  fervid 
enthusiasm  of  the  Elizabethans,  and  had  taken  in  its  place  a 
gay  audacity,  an  airy  recklessness,  which  left  its  mark  upon  the 
brilHant  Hterature  they  produced.  They  sang  of  their  pleasures 
and  their  loves  in  graceful,  tuneful  songs,  and  they  produced 
occasionally,  and  almost  as  it  were  by  chance,  some  really 
beautiful  lyric  like  Suckling*s  Ballad  on  a  Wedding,  or  I^ove- 
lace's  To  Altheafrom  Prison,  by  means  of  which  they  won  for 
themselves  immortality. 

The  second  group  consisted  of  poets  whose  work  was  of  a 
very  different  character.  Of  these  Mr.  Shorthouse  has  said 
that  "  their  pecuHar  mission  seems  to  have  been  to  show  the 
English  people  what  a  fine  gentleman,  one  who  was  also  a 
214 


THE    TEMPLE 

iristian  and  a  Churchman,  might  be."     Chief  among  the 
roup  was  George  Herbert,  a  member  of  the  noble  family  of 

jmbroke.  In  the  year  1627,  he  gave  up  his  ofi&ce  as  Orator 
'bf  Cambridge,  and  the  honourable  and  distinguished  career 
that  lay  before  him,  in  order  to  be  ordained  as  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England.  "  He  did,"  says  Izaak 
Walton,  who  was  Herbert's  first  biographer,  "  acquaint  a 
court  friend  with  his  resolution  to  enter  into  sacred  Orders,  who 
persuaded  him  to  alter  it,  as  too  mean  an  employment,  and  too 
much  below  his  birth,  and  the  excellent  abilities  and  endow- 
ments of  his  mind.  To  whom  he  replied,  '  It  hath  been 
formerly  adjudged  that  the  domestic  servants  of  the  King  of 
Heaven  should  be  of  the  noblest  families  of  earth.  And  though 
the  iniquity  of  the  late  times  has  made  clergymen  meanly 
valued,  and  the  sacred  name  of  Priest  contemptible ;  yet  I  will 
labour  to  make  it  honourable,  by  consecrating  all  my  learning, 
and  all  my  poor  abilities  to  advance  the  glory  of  that  God 
that  gave  them  ;  knowing  that  I  can  never  do  too  much  for 
Him,  that  hath  done  so  much  for  me,  as  to  make  me  a  Christian. 
And  I  will  labovu:  to  be  like  my  Saviour,  by  making  humility 
lovely  in  the  eyes  of  all  men,  and  by  following  the  merciful  and 
meek  example  of  my  dear  Jesus.*  " 

In  this  spirit  he  took  up  his  work.  In  1630  he  was  presented 
by  the  King  to  the  hving  of  Bemerton  in  Wiltshire.  The  tiny 
church  of  Bemerton  stood  on  the  high  road  between  Salisbury 
and  Wilton,  and  was  in  a  ruinous  condition  when  Herbert 
became  rector.  He  caused  it  to  be  put  in  thorough  repair,  and 
he  rebuilt  the  parsonage  of  which  "  almost  three  parts  were 
fallen  down  and  decayed."  The  situation  of  the  parsonage 
was,  Walton  tells  us,  more  pleasant  than  healthful.  Its 
windows  looked  out  over  low-lying  meadow-lands,  and  across 
the  slow-flowing  little  River  Madder,  to  where  the  spire  of 
Salisbury  Cathedral  rose  in  the  distance.  It  was  not  the  best 
home  for  a  man  who,  like  Mr.  Herbert,  had  "  a  body  apt  to 
a  consumption  and  to  fevers  and  other  infirmities,"  and  it 
probably  helped  to  bring  about  his  early  death.  But  before 
the  end  came  there  were  three  years  of  life  to  be  lived — years 

215 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

which  he  filled  so  full  of  love  and  devotion  and  willing  service 
that  they  stand  out  clear  to  our  later  age,  radiant  with  "  the 
beauty  of  hoHness."  Of  these  three  years  The  Temple  is  the 
record  and  memorial. 

Mr.  George  Herbert  was,  Walton  tells  us,  "  of  a  stature 
incUning  towards  tallness ;  his  body  was  very  straight,  and 
so  far  from  being  cumbered  with  too  much  flesh  that  he  was 
lean  to  extremity.  His  aspect  was  cheerful,  and  his  speech 
and  motion  did  both  declare  him  a  gentleman.''  His  beau- 
tiful, high-born  wife  had  given  up  with  *'  a  cheerful  willing- 
ness the  dignity  which  had  belonged  to  her  position  in  her 
father's  house,"  to  become  the  wife  of  a  parish  priest  who 
"  can  challenge  no  precedence  or  place  but  that  which  she  pur- 
chases by  her  obliging  humility."  With  them  in  the  parsonage 
were  Mr.  Herbert's  two  nieces,  living,  as  he  wrote  to  his  brother, 
"  so  lovingly,  lying,  eating,  walking,  praying,  working  still 
together,  that  I  take  a  comfort  therein."  These  four  made  up 
the  household,  where  *  plain  living '  was  dignified  by  '  high 
thinking/  and  where  Mr.  Herbert's  precept — 

Let  thy  mind's  sweetness  have  his  operation 
Upon  thy  body,  clothes,  and  habitation, 

was  most  fully  carried  out. 

In  his  parish  Herbert  Hved  "  a  life  so  full  of  charity,  humility, 
and  all  Christian  virtues  that  it  deserves  the  eloquence  of  St. 
Chrysostom  to  commend  and  declare  it."  He  was  the  personal 
friend  of  each  member  of  his  flock,  and  gave  them  loving 
sympathy  as  well  as  alms. 

The  joy  of  loving  service  grew  with  each  day's  labour,  and 
the  fastidious  Cambridge  scholar  whose  chief  fault  had  been 
noted  as  a  certain  haughtiness  toward  those  inferior  to  him 
in  station — the  courtier  who  had  shown  "  a  genteel  humour 
for  cloathes  and  courtlike  company  " — learnt  to  welcome  the 
opportunity  of  performing  any  act  of  helpfulness,  however 
humble  its  nature.  Once  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  Salis- 
bury to  join  his  musical  friends  in  an  *  appointed  private 
music  meeting  '  he  met  on  the  road  a  carrier  who  was  in  diffi- 
culties with  his  load.  Herbert  stopped  and  throwing  off  his 
216 


%jiuthor' of  those  Sacred 'Paetns  callcd\ 


216 


Photo.  Smery  Walker  Ltd 


KTHE  TEMPLE 
t,  helped  the  man  to  unload  and  rearrange  the  horse's 
den ;  then  proceeded  on  his  way  to  Salisbury,  with  his 
array  somewhat  disordered.  Some  of  his  friends  expressed 
surprise  that  "  Mr.  George  Herbert,  who  used  to  be  so  trim  and 
clean,  came  into  that  company  so  soiled  and  discomposed." 
He  told  his  story,  and  then,  in  answer  to  those  who  blamed 
him  for  undertaking  such  "  dirty  employment  "  he  said,  that  his 
conscience  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  be  easy  had  he 
I  neglected  such  an  obvious  duty.  "  For  if  I  be  bound  to  pray 
for  all  that  be  in  distress,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sure  I  am  bound, 
so  far  as  it  is  in  my  power,  to  practise  what  I  pray  for.  And 
though  I  do  not  wish  for  the  like  occasion  every  day,  yet  let  me 
tell  you,  I  would  not  wilUngly  pass  one  day  of  my  life  without 
comforting  a  sad  soul  or  showing  mercy ;  and  I  praise  God 
for  this  occasion.     And  now  let's  tune  our  instruments." 

For  the  Church  and  for  its  services  Herbert  felt  a  strong  and 
passionate  attachment.  Every  day,  at  ten  o'clock  and  at 
four,  he  with  his  family  and  his  servants,  came  to  the  little 
church  and  joined  in  public  worship  to  God.  Soon  from  the 
gentlemen's  families  around  about  among  whom  the  "  holy 
Mr.  Herbert  "  was  held  in  high  esteem,  came  one  after  another 
to  increase  the  numbers  of  the  Httle  congregation  ;  and  "  some 
of  the  meaner  sort  of  his  parish  did  so  love  and  reverence  Mr. 
Herbert  that  they  would  let  their  plough  rest  when  Mr.  Herbert's 
Saints'  bell  rung  to  prayers,  that  they  might  also  offer  their 
devotions  to  God  with  him,  and  would  then  return  back  to 
their  plough."  He  taught  his  people  that  God  should  be 
worshipped  with  outward  decorum  as  well  as  with  inward 
reverence  ;  he  preached  to  them  plainly  and  simply  on  the 
great  truths  of  their  religion,  and  he  instructed  them  with  zeal 
and  thoroughness  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Church,  showing  them 
*'  that  the  whole  service  of  the  Church  was  a  reasonable  and 
therefore  an  acceptable  sacrifice  to  God." 

Gradually,  in  this  life  of  constant  devotion,  the  conception 
of  the  Church  as  the  symbol  of  man's  spiritual  life  grew  clearer 
and  clearer  in  Herbert's  mind,  and  the  idea  of  his  book.  The 
Temple,  was  formed.     It  is  probable  that  many  of  the  poems 

217 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

that  he  wove  into  it  were  written  before  he  came  to  Bemerton. 
Some  of  them  show  unmistakable  signs  of  having  been  written 
during  those  years  when  Herbert  had  been  torn  between  a 
desire  for  the  fame  and  the  reward  that  a  worldly  career  would 
give  him,  and  a  consciousness  that  in  the  humble  and  obscure 
office  of  a  parish  priest  he  could  best  glorify  God.  The  book  is 
a  record  of  the  writer's  spiritual  life,  the  doubt,  the  wavering, 
the  depression  and  keen  agony  through  which  he  came  to  thej 
happy  serenity  of  his  later  years  ;  and  this  thread  of  personal) 
experience  running  through  it  helps  to  give  unity  to  the  whole 
and  to  make  it  not  merely  a  collection  of  poems  but  a  book. 

First  comes  a  long  poem  of  seventy-eight  stanzas,  called  The  \ 
Church  Porch,  which  tells  how  man  must  strive  to  purify  his  I 
heart  and  life  before  he  can  hope  to  attain  to  full  spiritual  com-  \ 
munion  with  God.  Plain  duties  are  set  forward  with  a  direct-  i 
ness  and  vigour  of  language  that  have  made  the  poem  dear  to! 
ordinary,  everyday  men  and  women  from  the  seventeenth! 
century  to  our  own  time. 

Lie  not :  but  let  thy  heart  be  true  to  God,  ; 

Thy  mouth  to  it,  thy  actions  to  them  both  ;  r  : 

Cowards  tell  lies,  and  those  that  fear  the  rod ;  -  ' 

The  stormy  working  soul  spits  lies  and  froth.  J 

Dare  to  be  true.     Nothing  can  need  a  lie  ;  ^ 

A  fault,  which  needs  it  most,  grows  two  thereby.  ■•, 

Chase  brave  employments  with  a  naked  sword  j 

Throughout  the  world.     Fool  not ;  for  all  may  have,  J 

If  they  dare  try,  a  glorious  life,  or  grave.  f 

Pitch  thy  behaviour  low,  thy  projects  high ;  A 

So  shalt  thou  humble  and  magnanimous  be :  ^ 

Sink  not  in  spirit ;  who  aimeth  at  the  sky,  "    ^ 

Shoots  higher  much  than  he  that  means  a  tree.  '- 

In  brief,  acquit  thee  bravely,  play  the  man.  ' 

These  are  a  few  typical  extracts  from  The  Church  Porch;^ 
enough,  perhaps,  to  show  something  of  its  tone  and  spirits 
There  follow  a  hundred  and  sixty-nine  short  poems  which 
show  the  greatest  variety  in  subject  and  in  form.  Somd 
continue  the  allegory  implied  in  the  name  The  Temple.  ■ 

Thou,  whom  the  former  precepts  have 
Sprinkled  and  taught,  how  to  behave 
Thyself  in  church ;  approach,  and  taste 
The  Church's  mystical  repast. 

2X8 


THE    TEMPLE 

Avoid  profaneness  ;  come  not  here  : 
Nothing  but  holy,  pure,  and  clear. 
Or  that  which  groaneth  to  be  so. 
May  at  his  peril  further  go. 


IBrhere  are  poems  on  Church  Monuments,  Church  Music,  The 
Church  Lock  and  Key,  The  Church  Floor,  The  Church  Windows. 
To  all  these  objects  is  given  a  curious  and  sometimes  beautiful 
symbolism.  The  chequered  marble  of  the  floor  denotes 
various  moral  virtues : 

.  .  .  That  square  and  speckled  stone 
Which  looks  so  firm  and  strong,  is  Patience. 
And  the  other  black  and  grave,  wherewith  each  one 
Is  chequered  all  along, 

Hximility. 

and  each  is  joined  to  the  others  by  the  cement  of  love  and 
charity.  This  series  of  poems  culminates  in  The  Altar,  in 
which  the  lines  are  arranged  so  that  the  whole,  as  printed, 
actually  forms  the  shape  of  an  altar.  In  this  instance,  as  in 
his  use  of  far-fetched  conceits  and  over-fanciful  images, 
Herbert  was  affected  by  the  prevaiHng  but  perverted  taste  of 
his  day.  His  own  inclination  is  toward  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness, and  in  his  noblest  verses  these  qualities  are  finely 
shown. 

To  all  the  different  seasons  of  the  Church's  year  poems  are 
allotted.  There  are  poems  also  on  Holy  Baptism  and  Holy 
Communion,  and  then  come  a  number  which  do  not  fall 
directly  into  the  structural  plan,  but  which  set  forth  the  various 
phases  of  the  spiritual  life.  The  titles  of  these  are  in  many  cases 
quaint  and  homely,  giving  no  idea  of  the  subject  of  the  poem. 
The  Pulley,  for  example,  tells  how  God,  when  He  first  made 
man,  bestowed  upon  him  "  strength,  beauty,  wisdom,  honour, 
pleasure  "  ;  then 

Made  a  stay. 
Perceiving  that  alone  of  all  his  treasure, 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature. 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me. 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

219 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  ; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least. 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 

The  Collar  tells  of  the  rebellion  of  a  soul  against  the  restraints 
that  religion  would  impose  upon  it ;  the  passion  rises,  and 
swells  to  defiant  resolution ;  then  comes  the  wonderful  close, 
so  full  of  poetic  beauty,  so  surprising,  and  yet  so  satisfying. 

But  as  I  rav'd,  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 

At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling  "  Child  !  " 
And  I  reply'd,  "  My  I^ord." 

Perhaps  the  best  known  of  all  the  poems  of  The  Temple  is  that  j 
on  '  Virtue,'  which  owes  its  familiarity  partly  to  the  fact  that  \ 


it  is  quoted  in  Izaak  Walton^s  Compleat  Angler.     "  And  now," 
he  says,  "  look  about  you  and  see  how  pleasantly  that  meadow 
looks ;   nay,  and  the  earth  smells  as  sweetly  too.     Come,  let  i 
me  tell  you  what  holy  Mr.  Herbert  says  of  such  days  and 
flowers  as  these  ;   and  then  we  will  thank  God  that  we  enjoy  | 
them,  and  walk  to  the  river  and  sit  down  quietly,  and  try  to  i 
catch  the  other  brace  of  trouts."     And  then  he  quotes  thai 
poem,  which  begins  :  j 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright,  ] 

The  bridad  of  the  earth  and  sky  ;  ^ 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ;  ^ 

For  thou  must  die.  i 

The  form  and  metre  of  the  poems  show,  like  their  subject-  \ 
matter,  the  greatest  variety.  "  Out  of  one  hundred  and  sixty-  ■ 
nine  poems,  one  hundred  and  sixteen  are  written  in  metres^ 
that  are  not  repeated."  i 

The  book  was  finished  by  the  beginning  of  1633,  and  by  i 
that  time  George  Herbert's  life  was  drawing  toward  its  end.  | 
*'  He  died,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  like  a  saint  unspotted  of  the  1 
world,  full  of  alms-deeds,  full  of  humihty,  and  all  the  examples  j 
of  a  virtuous  life."  He  was  buried  March  3,  1633,  in  his  own  i 
church,  under  the  altar. 

From  his  deathbed  Herbert  sent  the  manuscript  of  The  \ 
220  • 


||itti  THE    TEMPLE 

Temple  to  his  friend  Nicholas  Ferrar.  *'  Tell  him,"  he  said, 
*'  that  he  shall  find  in  it  a  picture  of  the  many  spiritual  con- 
fiicts  that  have  passed  betwixt  God  and  my  soul,  before  I 
could  subject  mine  to  the  will  of  Jesus  my  Master  ;  in  whose 
service  I  have  now  found  perfect  freedom  :  desire  him  to 
read  it ;  and  then,  if  he  can  think  it  may  turn  to  the 
advantage  of  any  dejected  poor  soul,  let  it  be  made  public : 
if  not  let  him  burn  it." 

Nicholas  Ferrar  was,  next  to  Herbert,  the  man  to  whom 
the  Anglican  Church  of  the  days  of  Charles  I  owed  most.  He 
^vrote  no  poetry  himself,  but  he  was  the  friend  and  the  inspirer 
of  poets.  He  had  founded  at  Little  Gidding,  a  village  about 
eighteen  miles  from  Cambridge,  the  community  which  was 
mockingly  called  by  his  enemies  the  "  Protestant  nunnery," 
and  which  plays  such  an  important  part  in  Mr.  Shorthouse's 
jine  novel,  John  Inglesant.  Here  Ferrar,  with  various  members 
of  his  family,  thirty  in  all,  lived  a  life  of  retirement,  devotion, 
and  good  works.  He  had  been  Herbert's  friend,  when  both 
were  young  students  at  Cambridge,  and  though  in  after  life 
they  had  seen  little  of  each  other,  their  aims  and  ideals  remained 
in  perfect  sympathy.  Ferrar  took  the  manuscript  of  The 
Temple  home  to  Little  Gidding,  and  it  is  probable  that  it  was 
first  privately  printed  for  circulation  among  the  members  of 
the  community  there.  Before  the  end  of  the  year  1633  it  was 
pubUshed,  with  a  preface  by  Nicholas  Ferrar.  It  became  at 
once  very  popular.  When  Walton  wrote  his  Life  of  George 
Herbert  in  1674,  twenty  thousand  copies,  he  tells  us,  had  been 
sold  ;  and  fresh  editions  have  been  issued  at  intervals  up  to 
the  present  day.  Its  influence  on  the  poets  of  the  generation 
immediately  succeeding  Herbert's  was  immense.  Crashaw 
and  Vaughan,  the  greatest  of  these,  may  be  regarded  as 
Herbert's  spiritual  sons ;  and  of  the  mass  of  religious  poetry 
which  the  Caroline  age  produced  it  is  the  representative  and 
consummation. 


221 


^ 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE    HESPERIDES 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers. 

Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July  flowers  ; 

I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes. 

Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal  cakes.  .  .  . 

I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 

The  Court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  Fairy  King.  ' 

I  write  of  Hell :  I  sing,  and  ever  shall,  I 

Of  Heaven — and  hope  to  have  it  after  all. 

IT  was  during  the  dark  days  when  the  great  Civil  War  was  \ 
nearly  over,  and  the  people  of  England  were  beginning  ; 
to  realize,  with  passionate  horror  or  with  stern  satisfac-  i 
tion,  that  Charles  I  must  die,  that  Herrick's  book  of  poems,  \ 
thus  introduced,  was  pubUshed.  There  could  scarcely  have  ! 
been  a  time  when  men  would  have  been  less  ready  to  Hsten  ; 
to  his  fresh  and  fragrant  songs.  All  the  other  Cavalier  singers  I 
were  hushed.  Carew  had  met  his  death  before  the  troubles  , 
began.  I/Dvelace  and  SuckHng  had  fought  in  the  King's  I 
cause,  and  had  died  ruined  and  in  misery.  Crashaw  was  in! 
Rome  ;  and  Cowley  was  traveUing  hither  and  thither  over  the  t. 
Continent  working  desperately  for  the  Royal  cause.  Herrick  ' 
alone  had  sung  on  through  all  those  years  of  strife  ;  and  when  1 
the  triumph  of  the  Parliamentary  cause  had  driven  him  to  .; 
lyondon,  he  had  sat  down,  with  the  cries  of  conflicting  parties  \ 
in  his  ears,  to  prepare  for  publication  his  sparkling  and  joyous  j 
lays.  ^ 

Yet  Herrick  too  was  a  Royahst,  and  had  followed  the  course  I 
of  the  war  with  keen  interest,  and  celebrated  the  King's  ^ 
victories  in  triumphant  verse.  But  he  was,  above  everything  J 
else,  a  poet,  and  his  nature  was  dreamy  and  sensuous  rather  '\ 
than  quick  and  ardent.  He  was  content  to  look  on  while  other  • 
222 


men  agonized  and  fought.  Yet  though  Herrick  was  no  hero,  he 
W2is  a  man  of  sweet,  kindly  and  sincere  nature,  and  it  was  a 
true  instinct  that  kept  him  out  of  the  conflict  that  destroyed 
so  many  of  his  brethren,  and  beat  down  for  a  time  even  the 
soaring  genius  of  John  Milton.  It  was  his  work  to  cherish 
the  Renaissance  spirit  while  from  the  world  around  him  it  was 
quickly  passing  away,  and  to  bring  back  by  his  joyous  light- 
hearted  songs  some  of  the  colour  and  glory  of  the  Elizabethan 
age. 

But  in  1648  few  men  were  in  the  mood  to  listen  to  him,  and 
The  Hesperides  received  but  scant  attention.  In  the  next 
}'ear  the  tragedy  of  the  King's  execution  sent  a  thrill  of  horror 
through  the  country.  Men  read  in  a  passion  of  pity  and 
recovered  loyalty,  the  book  which  purported  to  show  them 
their  Eling,  patient,  suffering,  forgiving,  the  martyr  of  an  un- 
grateful people.  This  book,  the  Eikon  Basilike,  went  through 
lifty  editions  in  England  and  on  the  Continent  in  1648-49,  and 
men  turned  from  it  to  enter  eagerly  into  the  pamphlet  war 
which  was  going  on  between  the  two  great  parties  in  the  State. 
For  the  next  ten  years  little  was  read  in  England  save  works  on 
poHtics  and  rehgion.  By  the  Puritans  Herrick's  work  would 
under  any  circumstances  have  been  regarded  with  horror,  and 
the  RoyaUsts  had  Uttle  heart  for  his  junketings  and  merry- 
makings. 

f  The  book,  however,  is  well  worthy  of  the  consideration  that  a 
later  age  has  given  it.  "  It  is,"  says  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  "  a 
storehouse  of  lovely  things,  full  of  tiny  beauties  of  various  kind 
and  workmanship,  like  a  box  full  of  all  sorts  of  jewels  and  ropes 
of  seed-pearls,  opals  set  in  old-fashioned  shifting  settings, 
antique  gilt  trifles  sadly  tarnished  by  time  ;  here  a  ruby,  here  an 
amethyst,  and  there  a  stray  diamond,  priceless  and  luminous, 
flashing  hght  from  all  its  facets,  and  dulling  the  faded  jewellery 
with  which  it  is  so  promiscuously  huddled."  There  are  in 
all  1231  poems  in  the  book,  though  many  of  them  are  very 
short,  some  consisting  of  two  lines  only.  A  few  were  prob- 
ably written  during  Herrick's  early  years  in  lyondon,  when  he 
worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  frequented  the 

223 


V 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

taverns  at    which  the   wits  held  their  meetings.     Such    is 
perhaps  the  date  of  the  careless,  pagan  lyric  beginning  : 

I  fear  no  earthly  powers, 
But  care  for  crowns  of  flowers  ; 
And  love  to  have  my  beard 
With  wine  and  oil  besmeared. 
This  day  I'll  drown  all  sorrow  ; 
Who  knows  to  live  to-morrow  ? 

In  1629,  when  he  was  thirty-seven  years  old,  Herrickf 
obtained  the  living  of  Dean  Prior,  in  South  Devon.  He  was ' 
not  the  model  parish  priest  that  we  have  seen  in  George 
Herbert ;  yet  he  took  up  his  charge  at  Dean  Prior  with  the 
most  sincere  resolution  to  do  his  duty,  and  to  occupy  himself  1 
in  nothing  that  could  be  deemed  unworthy  of  his  high  calHng.  | 
To  this  end  he  began  by  solemnly  renouncing  his  poetic  craft,  i 
In  a  poem  that  strikes  a  higher  note  than  most  of  his  lyrics,  j 
he  bade  his  Farewell  unto  Poetry  : 

But  unto  me  be  only  hoarse,  since  now 

(Heaven  and  my  soul  bear  record  of  my  vow) 

I  my  desires  screw  from  thee,  and  direct  J 

Them  and  my  thoughts  to  that  sublim'd  respect  J 

And  conscience  unto  priesthood.  ...  ! 

'"   But,  fortunately  for  KngUsh  poetry,  the  vow  was  not  kept. 
The  poetic  impulse  was  too  strong  for  any  barrier  to  stand! 
against  it,  and  soon  Herrick  was  writing  as  freely  as  ever,  only 
striving,  as  he  tells  us,  to  keep  his  verses  pure,  and  free  from'^ 
the  licence  which  had  marred  the  j 

Unbaptized  rhymes  "'4 

Writ  in  my  wild,  unhallowed  times. 

The  sweetest  and  most  characteristic  of  the  verses  contained' 
in  The  Hesperides  Herrick  wrote  in  his  quiet  Devonshire' 
parsonage.  At  first  he  railed  against  the  fate  that  had  exiled; 
him  to  the  '  loathed  west,'  far  from  the  society  which  wasj 
nowhere  to  be  found  save  in  "  the  blest  place  of  his  nativity."' 
But  later  he  grew  to  love  his  beautiful  home,  and  he  gained  i 
from  it  a  sweeter  and  more  wholesome  inspiration  than  would  j 
have  visited  him  in  I^ondon.  The  parsonage  at  Dean  Prior  was,j 
we  gather,  an  old  and  rather  dilapidated  building.  An  ancientj 
224  I 


Robert  Herrick 

From  a  contemporary  Engraving 

Pboto.:Fmery  Walker  Iitd. 


334 


IP  THE    HESPERIDES 

serving-maid,  named  Prudence  Baldwin,  looked  after  the 
vicar's  comfort,  and,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  epitaph  he  after- 
ward wrote  upon  her,  served  him  very  faithfully.  A  pig  that 
he  had  taught  how  to  drink  out  of  a  tankard,  a  tame  lamb,  a 
dog,  a  cat,  a  goose,  a  cock  and  a  hen  were  Herrick's  household 
companions.  His  own  description  of  his  home  in  the  poem 
A  Thanksgiving  to  God,  is  quaint  and  beautiful.  He  thanks 
God  for  giving  him  *'  A  little  house  whose  humble  roof  is 
waterproof,"  and  goes  on  : 

Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchen's  small. 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin. 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipt,  imflead. 

These,  with  his  fire,  his  food,  his  drink,  the  plenty  of  his  land, 
and  the  produce  of  his  animals — 

All  these  and  better  thou  dost  send 
L|  Me  to  this  end, — 

[■  That  I  should  render  for  my  part 

A  thankful  heart. 

He  grew  to  know  and  love  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
country,  which  had  seemed  so  strange  to  him  at  first.  On  the 
fresh  spring  mornings  he  rose  with  the  sweet-singing  lark ; 
and  when  the  day  came  on  which  the  '*  budding  boys  and  girls 
went  out  to  bring  in  May,"  Herrick  was  there  too,  and  saw 
them  come  **  with  white-thorn  laden  home  "  ;  then  while 
Aurora  threw  "  her  fair  fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air," 
he  walked  with  the  merry  company  through  the  village  where 

Each  field  turns  a  street ;  each  street  a  park. 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees  :  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch  :  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is 

Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove. 

Doubtless,  too,  he  shared  in  the  '  cakes  and  cream '  which 
awaited  the  revellers  when  they  reached  home.  He  walked 
about  the  fields,  and  wove  his  quaint  fancies  concerning  the 

p  225 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

flowers.  "  Why  do  you  weep,  sweet  babes  ?  "  he  asked  the 
primroses  that  bent  under  their  load  of  morning  dew, 

Speak,  whim'pring  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep  ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep. 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 

When  he  saw  the  tall,  wliite  liUes  growing  in  a  cottage 
garden,  he  promised  some  imaginary  love  that  from  the  dust 
of  their  golden  anthers  he  would  make  sweet  "  cream  of 
cowsHps  '*  which  she  should  spread  as  butter  upon  the  bread 
made  of  *'  paste  of  filberts,"  that  he  would  bring  her.  His 
fancy  peopled  the  pleasant  meadows  with  tiny  fairy  shapes, 
and  saw  them  spread  their  little  mushroom  table  with  a  feast 
for  Oberon,  the  Fairy  King. 

And  now  we  must  imagine  first. 
The  elves  present  to  quench  his  thirst 
A  pure  seed-pearl  of  infant  dew. 
Brought  and  besweeten'd  in  a  blue 
And  pregnant  violet ; 

and  so  we  are  taken  through  the  other  items  of  the  feast — ^the 
horns  of  papery  butterflies,  the  httle  f  uz-ball  pudding  that  was 
too  coarse  for  his  Majesty's  taste,  the  emmet's  eggs,  the  beards 
of  mice,  the  newt's  stewed  thigh,  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
fantastic  dishes  on  which  Herrick's  fancy  dwelt  so  merrily.  Or, 
again,  the  deserted  meadows  call  up  to  the  poet's  mind  a  still 
fairer  picture  of  the  maids  who  have  "  spent  their  hours  "  in 
them  and  now  are  gone. 

Ye  have  beheld  how  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come. 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing. 

And  seen  them  in  a  rotmd  ; 
Each  virgin,  like  a  spring. 

With  honeysuckles  crown'd. 

But  now  we  see  none  here. 

Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread. 
And  with  dishevell'd  hair 

Adom'd  this  smoother  mead. 

226 


\ 


At  all  the  merry-makings  round  about — the  wakes  and  morns 
dances,  the  Christmas  mummings  and  Twelfth  night  revels, 
Herrick  was  a  familiar  figure.  We  can  imagine  that  he  was 
outdone  by  none  of  his  parishioners  in  his  enjoyment  of  the 
"  tarts  and  custards,  creams  and  cakes,"  the  pageants,  the 
players,  the  dancing — even  the  '  cudgel-play '  that  came 
"  near  the  dying  of  the  day."  We  can  imagine  too  that  the 
parson's  genial  face,  with  its  massive  jaw  and  Roman  nose,  and 
its  crown  of  thick,  curUng  black  hair,  was  a  welcome  sight  to 
every  lass  and  lad  and  man  and  woman  who  joined  in  the 
simple  revels.  His  parishioners  were  his  friends,  and  though 
he  did  not  labour  for  their  spiritual  welfare  with  the  devoted 
zeal  that  marked  George  Herbert's  work  as  a  parish  priest,  he 
did  his  best  for  them  according  to  the  Hght  that  was  in  him 
"  The  threshold  of  my  door,"  he  says. 

Is  worn  by  th'  poor. 

Who  thither  come,  and  freely  get 

Good  words,  or  meat. 

If  any  strict  and  solemn  Puritan  happened  to  find  his  way 
from  the  warring  outside  world  to  the  peaceful  remoteness  of 
Dean  Prior  he  probably  found  Httle  that  encouraged  him  to 
remain,  for  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  convince  the  members 
of  that  happy  community,  upheld  as  they  were  by  the  authority 
of  their  vicar,  that  mince-pies  at  Christmas  were  sinful,  and  that 
to  dance  round  the  maypole  showed  an  unregenerate  heart. 
They  might  have  answered  him  in  Herrick's  own  words — 
which  they  probably  knew,  for  his  poems  were  freely  passed 
about  in  manuscript  before  they  were  printed  : 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime. 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

Thus  Herrick's  busy,  though  not  laborious  days  passed 
happily  away,  and  when  the  evening  came  he  went  home  to 
his  little  parlour,  where  the  "  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  brier  " 
made  his  fire.  We  can  think  of  him  sitting  there  in  the  ease 
and  warmth  that  he  loved,  with  nothing  to  disturb  his  luxurious 
musings  save  **  a  choir  of  singing  crickets  by  the  fire  "  ;  the 

227 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

"  green-eyed  kitling  "  sitting  by  his  side,  on  the  watch  for  the 
"  brisk  mouse  "  who  might  be  tempted  from  its  hole  by  the 
unbroken  quiet.  Then  all  sorts  of  lovely  fancies  came  throng- 
ing into  his  head,  and  set  themselves  to  rich  though  deHcate 
music  and  strains  from  the  old  classical  poems.  Perhaps  he 
called  up  the  figures  of  those  airy,  unsubstantial  loves  of  his — 
Julia,  Corinna,  Perilla,  Anthea  and  the  rest — whom  he  met  in 
the  White  Island  of  Dreams,  where  he  was  wont  to  wander,  and 
addressed  them  with  pretty  trifling  or  dainty  flattery  ;  or  rose 
even  to  that  note  of  real  passion  which  is  heard  in  such  verses  as 
the  last  of  those  addressed  "  To  Anthea  "  : 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart. 

The  very  eyes  of  me  ; 
And  hast  command  of  every  part. 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

Sometimes  his  thoughts  took  a  graver  turn,  and  he  mused 
on  the  things  belonging  to  religion  and  to  holiness.  In  such 
a  mood  he  wrote  his  famous  Litany. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
"When  temptations  me  oppress. 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  in  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  1 

But  it  was  difficult  for  Herrick  to  think  even  of  his  own  death 
without  surrounding  it  with  sweet  sensuous  images  that  take 
away  its  terrors.  So  we  soon  find  him  adjuring  Anthea  to 
bury  him  "  under  that  holyoak,  or  gospel  tree,"  where  there 
will  be  room  for  her  to  lie  beside  him, — 

For  my  embalming,  Sweetest,  there  will  be 
No  need  of  spices,  when  I'm  laid  by  thee. 

Perilla  is  bidden  to 

Follow  me  weeping  to  my  turf,  and  there 
lyct  fall  a  primrose,  and  with  it  a  tear. 

228 


and  even  the  Robin  Red-breast  must  help  to  give  sweetness  to 
his  obsequies. 


I 


Laid  out  for  dead,  let  thy  last  kindness  be 
With  leaves  and  moss-work  for  to  cover  me  ; 
And  while  the  wood-nymphs  my  cold  corpse  inter. 
Sing  thou  my  dirge,  sweet-warbling  chorister  I 
For  epitaph,  in  foliage,  next  write  this  : 
Here,  here  the  tomb  of  Robin  Herrick  is  I 


But  Robert  Herrick  had  some  troublous  times  to  go  through 
before  his  final  epitaph  could  be  written.  In  1647  "^^^  trium- 
phant Parliamentary  party  was  engaged  in  forcing  Presby- 
terianism  on  a  reluctant  people,  and  even  remote  Dean  Prior 
did  not  escape  the  visitation  of  its  commissioners.  We  can 
imagine  with  what  grief  and  surprise  the  villagers  saw  their 
vicar,  who  had  become  such  a  familiar  part  of  their  lives, 
driven  from  his  place.  To  Herrick,  at  first,  the  change  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  quite  unwelcome.  London  had  re- 
mained to  him,  through  all  his  eighteen  years  of  exile,  the  City 
of  Desire,  the  brilliant  home  of  great  reputations  and  fulfilled 
ambitions.  He  hurried  away  from  the  west,  taking  with  him 
the  store  of  poems  that  he  had  collected,  and  when  he  got  to 
London,  he  hastened,  as  we  have  seen,  to  get  these  into  print. 
He  put  them  together  without  classification  or  arrangement, 
and  with  nothing  to  indicate  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written.  Only  the  religious  poems,  Nohle  Numbers  as  he  called 
them,  were  placed  by  themselves  and  dated  1647.  So  in  the 
midst  of  clamour  and  harsh  cries  while  the  two  forces  of  the 
State  strove  in  their  last  death-grapple,  this  book  of  sunshine 
and  flowers  and  perfumes  gathered  in  the  far-ofiF  west,  came  into 
being. 

Poor  Herrick !  He  had  dreamed  perhaps  at  Dean  Prior  of 
the  time  when  he  should  bring  his  poems  to  London  and 
receive  the  acclamations  of  the  wits  and  the  poets  assembled 
in  just  such  a  company  as,  in  the  old  days,  had  gathered  round 
his  master,  Ben  Jonson.  He  had  looked  for  fame  and  honour 
and  general  applause  and  all  he  received  was  cold  neglect. 
The  pubHc  did  not  want  his  poems,  and  all  the  wits  of  his  day 
were  dead  or  scattered.     He  could  not  look  across  the  ages  and 

229 


\ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

see  the  renown  which  waited  for  him  there.  He  was  lonely  and 
poor  and  growing  old,  and  lyondon  was  no  longer  his  kindly 
birthplace,  but  a  city  strange  and  hard.  We  do  not  know 
how  he  spent  the  fourteen  years  of  his  lyondon  life,  but  we 
know  he  was  obscure  and  unprosperous,  and  we  feel  sure  that 
he  was  unhappy.  In  1662,  when  King  Charles  II  had  been  for 
two  years  on  the  throne,  and  Herrick  had  probably  almost 
despaired  of  receiving  any  sign  of  royal  favour,  his  Hving  was 
restored  to  him.  He  went  back  to  Dean  Prior  and  there  spent 
the  remaining  twelve  years  of  his  life — peacefully,  as  we  suppose, 
though  no  record  remains  to  tell  how  the  old  man  of  seventy- 
one  settled  down  in  his  former  place.  He  sang  no  more  ;  his 
muse  seems  to  have  deserted  him  with  the  quenching  of  his 
gaiety,  and  though  we  cannot  think  that  he  ever  really  lost  his 
delight  in  life,  yet  it  is  a  sobered  and  a  chastened  Herrick  whom 
we  picture  sitting  in  the  familiar  Uttle  parlour  of  the  parsonage 
house.  We  hope  that  his  new  maid,  whoever  she  was,  attended 
to  his  wants  as  cheerfully  and  faithfully  as  old  Prew  had  done  ; 
and  we  hope  that  the  men  and  matrons  of  the  village,  whom 
he  had  known  as  toddHng  children  and  as  blooming  youths  and 
maidens  were  kind  and  gentle  to  the  old  vicar  who  had  helped 
to  make  their  earHer  years  glad  and  bHthe.  But  we  do  not 
know,  for  the  only  record  that  remains  to  us  is  that  contained 
in  the  church  register  of  Dean  Prior,  "Robert  Herrick,  Vicker, 
was  buried  ye  15th  day  of  October  1674." 


Z3Q 


The  Restoration  Period 

BY  the  time  that  Charles  II  came  to  the  throne  the 
Elizabethan  spirit  had  entirely  died  out  of  our  litera- 
ture. The  gay,  daring,  gallant  note  was  gone,  and  in 
its  place  sounded  the  deep  and  solemn  music  of  conquered  but 
unsubdued  Puritanism.  The  intense  moral  earnestness  of  the 
Puritan,  and  his  pre-occupation  with  matters  of  religion  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  write  on  light  or  secular  subjects  ;  while 
the  echo  of  the  long  and  bitter  strife  which  had  ended  in  the 
Restoration  gave  added  sternness  to  his  words. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  a  new  influence  came  to 
drive  out  the  spirit  of  Puritanism.  The  brilHant,  witty  and 
dissolute  court  of  Charles  II  inspired  a  literature  which  reflected 
its  own  quahties.  More  especially  is  this  the  case  with  the 
drama  of  the  period  ;  no  more  sparkling  comedies  can  be  found 
than  those  of  Congreve,  Wycherley  and  their  school,  and 
none  of  such  low  moral  tone.  Enthusiasm  gave  way  to  a 
cool  cynicism,  wit  was  valued  far  more  highly  than  the  finest 
imaginative  quahties.  At  the  same  time  all  exuberance  of 
expression  was  pruned  away,  and  a  clear,  lucid,  concise  style 
was  cultivated,  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  The  great  creative 
age  with  its  adventurous  methods  was  over,  and  an  age  of 
intellectual  brilhancy  took  its  place. 


231 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
PARADISE   LOST 

MILTON  is  the  only  one  among  our  great  English  poets 
who,  consciously  and  with  solemn  purpose  prepared 
and  educated  himself  for  the  work  he  was  to  do.  As 
a  young  man  he  resolved  that  he  would  one  day  write  a  great 
poem ;  and  thenceforth  his  whole  life  was  ordered  to  fit  him 
for  this  end.  It  was  not,  as  with  Richard  Hakluyt,  a  strong 
attraction  of  interest  that  drew  him  toward  his  life-work  ;  nor 
was  he,  like  Francis  Bacon,  impelled  by  a  great  intellectual 
passion.  The  force  that  worked  within  him  was  an  intense 
moral  earnestness,  induced  partly  by  his  Puritan  upbringing, 
partly  by  the  natural  gravity  of  his  disposition.  Life,  as  he 
conceived  it,  meant  work  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  edifi- 
cation of  man.  The  reckless  Hterary  improvidence  of  the 
Elizabethans,  who  flung  their  treasures  of  wit  and  poetry  on 
this  side  and  that,  was  impossible  to  John  Milton.  Not  so 
would  he  spend  the  powers  bestowed  on  him,  but  would  cherish 
them  with  a  careful  passion,  waiting  through  long  years  till  they 
grew  stronger  and  more  disciplined,  and  fit  for  the  work  which 
in  due  season  they  were  to  accomplish.  Not  only  the  intellec- 
tual powers,  but  the  whole  man  must  be  chastened  and  per- 
fected ;  or,  in  Milton's  own  noble  words,  "  He  who  would  not 
be  frustrated  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable 
things  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,  .  .  .  not  presuming 
to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men  or  famous  cities  unless  he  have 
in  himself  the  experience  and  practice  of  all  that  is  praise- 
worthy." 

The  outward  circumstances  of  Milton's  life  during  childhood, 
youth,  and  early  manhood,  were  entirely  favourable  to  the 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

attainment  of  this  ideal.  His  father  was  a  scrivener  who  hacS 
prospered  in  his  calling.  So  that  when  his  son  John  was  boru' 
in  1608,  he  was  living  in  Bread  Street,  which  was  then '  wholly- 
inhabited  by  rich  merchants.'  Here,  above  the  father's  shopi 
or  office,  the  family  lived.  There  were  John  Milton  the  elderJ 
his  wife,  of  whom  we  know  nothing,  his  two  sons,  John  and* 
Christopher,  and  his  daughter  Anne.  The  house  was  an  ideal 
nursery  for  a  poet.  The  father  was  a  man  of  high  character 
and  culture,  a  skilful  musician,  and  a  composer  of  some  note.] 
He  had  many  friends  among  musicians  and  men  of  learning^ 
who  often  gathered  at  his  house.  So  that  although  Puritan^ 
ideals  of  order  and  regularity  governed  the  household,  there  wasj 
Uttle  of  Puritan  gloom  or  narrowness.  The  father  seemS; 
from  the  very  first  to  have  recognized  that  his  eldest  son  wa^ 
not  quite  as  other  children  were,  and  could  not  be  made  to  fil^ 
in  with  ordinary  rules,  or  judged  by  ordinary  standards.  The^ 
boy  was  treated  always  as  one  marked  out  and  dedicated  for  a| 
great  work.  f 

The  early  years  of  Milton's  life  were  the  closing  years  o^ 
Shakespeare's ;  and  in  after  days  Milton  must  have  thoughts 
with  a  thrill  of  keenest  interest,  of  the  many  times  that  the^ 
elder  poet  had  passed  before  the  house  where  he  himself  was 
growing  out  of  infancy  into  boyhood.  For  the  Mermaid 
Tavern  was  in  Bread  Street,  and  when  Shakespeare  came  up| 
from  Stratford  to  I^ondon,  as  we  believe  he  often  did  during^ 
the  last  peaceful  years  of  his  life,  he  doubtless  went  sometimesj 
to  join  the  company  of  wits  and  poets  at  the  famous  club.  Mr./ 
Masson,  Milton's  biographer,  suggests  that  perhaps  on  one  of 
these  occasions  Shakespeare  may  have  met  in  the  street  the; 
fair-haired,  beautiful  Httle  boy  who  was  afterwards  to  stand] 
with  him  in  the  front  rank  of  English  poets  ;  and  that  memories: 
of  his  own  son,  Hamnet,  who  had  died  so  many  years  before,  j 
may  have  kindled  within  him  for  a  moment  a  feeling  of  loving,  ■ 
fatherly  interest.  It  is  not  impossible  that  such  a  meeting; 
took  place,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  think  of  even  such  a  slight] 
connexion  between  our  two  great  poets.  I 

We  know  very  little  of  Milton's  childhood,  beyond  what  he 

234 


P  PARADISE    LOST 

himself  has  told  us  in  autobiographical  passages  of  his  works. 
He  went  to  St.  Paul's  School — Dean  Colet's  famous  founda- 
tion— and  his  father  engaged  for  him  also  a  private  tutor, 
Thomas  Young,  who  was  "  esteemed  to  have  such  an  excellent 
way  of  training  up  youth  that  none  in  his  time  went  beyond 
it."  Milton  showed  the  greatest  ardour  for  learning,  which,  he 
says,  "  I  seized  with  such  eagerness  that  from  the  twelfth  year 
of  my  age  I  scarce  ever  went  to  bed  before  midnight."  His 
father  looked  on,  well  pleased  to  sanction  even  this  excessive 
devotion  to  study.  He  hoped  to  see  his  son  a  great  and  famous 
divine  of  the  English  Church,  and  he  felt,  at  second  hand,  the 
fervour  that  inspired  the  boy.  Books,  teachers,  leisure — all 
things  that  a  student  could  desire  were  Milton's.  There  are 
three  books  that  we  know,  by  the  internal  evidence  of  his 
works,  that  he  must  have  specially  studied.  First  in  order  of 
importance  is  the  Bible.  The  Authorized  Version  was  pub- 
lished when  Milton  was  three  years  old,  and  we  may  be  sure 
that  a  copy  of  it  soon  made  its  way  to  the  scrivener's  house- 
hold. Milton  had  that  close  and  intimate  knowledge  of  its 
language  which  comes  only  of  early  familiarity.  Its  phrases 
and  cadences  entered  into  his  speech  as  its  teaching  entered 
into  his  life.  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene  was  undoubtedly  the 
chief  of  those  '  lofty  fables  and  romances,'  among  which,  he 
tells  us,  his  "  young  feet  wandered,"  and  its  influence,  also,  is 
clearly  seen  in  his  work.  Third  on  the  Ust  comes  a  long  epic 
poem.  The  Divine  Weeks,  written  in  1578  by  a  French  Huguenot, 
Du  Bartas.  It  treats  of  the  Creation,  and  perhaps  gave  Milton 
some  ideas  for  his  Paradise  Lost.  It  was  translated  into 
EngHsh  in  1606. 

In  1625,  when  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  Milton  went  to 
Christ's  College,  Cambridge.  Various  stories  are  told  of  his 
university  career,  and  it  seems  certain  that  at  least  once  he 
got  into  serious  trouble  with  the  authorities.  The  offence 
had  probably  something  to  do  with  his  religious  opinions.  The 
nickname,  "  the  lady  of  Christ's,"  given  him  in  good-natured 
mockery  by  his  fellow  students,  testified  to  the  purity,  and 
perhaps  to  the  ultra-scrupulousness  of  his  conduct. 


} 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

During  the  seven  years  that  he  spent  at  the  university,; 
Milton's  attitude  toward  the  Church  of  England  was  slowly 
changing,  and  when  he  left,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  had  I 
quite  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could  not  enter  on  the  career  I 
that  had  been  planned  for  him.  By  this  time  Archbishop  j 
lyaud  had  made  himself  supreme  in  the  English  Church  and  had  , 
introduced  ceremonies  which  were  highly  distasteful  to  Milton's  ] 
Puritan  notions.  "To  the  service  of  the  Church,"  he  says,  | 
"  I  was  destined  of  a  child,  and  in  mine  own  resolutions,  till  i 
coming  to  some  maturity  of  years,  and  perceiving  what  ^ 
tyranny  had  invaded  in  the  Church,  that  he  who  would  take 
orders  must  subscribe  slave.  ...  I  thought  it  better  to  prefer  j 
a  blameless  silence  hei&!0i^  sacred  office  of  speaking,  bought  i 
and  begun  with  servitude  and  forswearing."  j 

e  disappointment  fell  heavily  on  the  elder  John  Milton,! 
ad  been  to  some  extent  prepared  for  it,  and  would  in  no  | 
way  attempt  to  interfere  with  his  son's  honest  convictions.! 
Milton  had  by  this  time  decided  that  his  life-work  was  to  be  the| 
production  of  a  great  poem.  He  refused  to  enter  one  of  the| 
learned  professions,  or,  indeed,  any  profession  at  all.  He^^ 
wanted,  he  said,  some  years  of  quietness  and  leisure,  during 
which  he  might  read,  think,  observe,  and  prepare  himself,  | 
according  to  the  utmost  of  his  powers,  for  his  life-work.  He  J 
felt  that  those  powers  were  at  present  crude  and  immature  ;  J 
:hat,  as  he  expresses  it  in  the  sonnet,  "On  his  being  arrived  | 
to  the  age  of  twenty-three,"  he  had  none  of  the  "  inward  ripe-  j 
less  .   .  .  that  some  more  timely  happy  spirits  indueth."         ] 

Many  fathers  might  have  felt  that,  after  seven  years  of 
miversity  life,  the  request  for  more  time  in  which  to  study  ] 
vas  unreasonable.  But  the  father  of  John  Milton,  had,  as  has  \ 
>een  said,  a  strong  and  understanding  sympathy  with  his  great  j 
.on,  and  once  more  the  way  was  made  smooth  for  that  son's  j 
eet.  Milton  felt  his  father's  kindness  deeply,  and  acknowledged  j 
t  warmly.  "  For  thou  didst  not,  my  father,"  he  says,  "  bid  j 
ne  go  where  the  broad  way  is  open,  the  ready  mart  of  exchange,  ] 
«rhere  there  shines  the  sure  and  golden  hope  of  heaping  up  coin,  i 

.  .  but  desiring  me  rather  to  enrich  my  mind  by  cultivation, 
236 


PARADISE    LOST 

allowest  me  far  from  the  noise  of  town,  and  shut  up  in 
p  retreats  to  wander,  a  happy  companion  by  Apollo's  side, 
ough  the  leisured  sweetness  of  Aonian  glades/' 
The  '  deep  retreat '  was  the   httle  village    of    Horton,  in 
'Buckinghamshire,  where  his  father,  having  retired  with  a 

I  comfortable  fortune,  had  estabUshed  himself.  Though  Horton 
j  was  only  seventeen  miles  from  lyondon  there  was,  in  those  days, 
i  little  communication  with  the  capital.     It  was  a  true  country 

village  ;    the  River  Colne  flowed  through  it,  and  there  were 

great  stretches  of  meadowland  and  wooded  slopes  all  around. 

Windsor  Castle,  set  on  a  hill  among  its  noble  trees,  was  to  be 

seen  in  the  distance. 

Five  quiet  happy  years  were  spent  at  Horton,  free,  as  far  as 
|we  can  tell,  from  any  trace  of  care  or  strife.  During  this  time 
!!Milton  wrote  his  two  dehghtful  country  poems,  L' Allegro  and 

II  Penseroso,  his  elegy  Lycidas,  and  the  masques  Arcades  and 
IComus.  These,  though  they  alone  would  entitle  him  to  a 
jhigh  place  among  EngUsh  poets,  he  counted  but  as  small  things, 
mere  experiments  in  the  art  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself. 
He  had  a  '*  mind  made  and  set  wholly  on  the  accomplishment 
of  greatest  things/'     He  did  not  seek  knowledge  with  the 

.true  scholar's  love  of  knowledge  as  an  end  in  itself.     In  the 

strictest  sense  of  the  word  he  was  not  a  scholar.     He  sought 

bnly  to  know  "  that  which  is  of  use  to  know,"  which  means  all 

ihat  would  help  him  to  write  his  great  poem. 

I    As  the  fifth  year  at  Horton  drew  to  a  close  it  seems  to  have 

\  )een  decided  by  Milton  and  his  father  that  the  time  had  come 

I  "or  foreign  travel  to  take  its  part  in  this  great  scheme  of  educa- 

j  ion,  and  early  in  1638  Milton  started  on  a  Continental  tour. 

be  visited  Paris,  Nice,  Genoa,  Florence,  Rome  and  Naples.    He 

met  in  familiar  intercourse  the  most  eminent  men  of  learning 

n  Italy  ;   at  Florence  he  visited  Galileo  ;   and  everywhere  he 

^as  praised  and  admired  both  for  his  personal  quaUties,  and 

"or  his  poems.     Hearing  of  the  troubles  in  England,  he  resolved 

.0  cut  his  tour  short,  and  he  reached  home  in  August  1639. 

The  time  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  great  purpose  seemed  now 
.0  have  come,  and  there  are  signs  that  he  himself  felt  that  the 

237 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

preparation  was  almost  complete.  **  You  make  many  in- 
quiries as  to  what  I  am  about/'  he  had  written  just  before  he 
started  for  the  Continent,  to  his  friend,  Charles  Diodati,  "  what 
am  I  thinking  of  ?  Why,  with  God's  help,  of  immortaHty  I 
Forgive  the  word,  I  only  whisper  it  in  your  ear !  Yes,  I  am 
pluming  my  wings  for  a  flight."  In  1638  we  have  in  one  of 
his  I^atin  poems  the  first  indication  that  he  had  thought  of 
some  definite  subject  as  suitable  for  his  great  work.  "  I  shall 
revive  in  song  our  native  princes,  and  among  them  Arthur 
moving  to  the  fray  even  in  the  nether  world."  There  are 
other  indications  that  for  some  time  the  story  of  King  Arthur 
occupied  his  thoughts,  and  that  he  almost  decided  to  make  it 
his  subject. 

When  Milton  returned  from  the  Continent  he  did  not  go 
back  to  Horton,  but  settled  in  I^ondon,  took  a  house  in  Alders-* 
gate,  and  received  into  it  the  two  sons  of  his  sister  Anne,  John 
and  Edward  Phillips,  whom  he  undertook  to  educate.  Still 
the  thought  of  his  poem  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  He  felt/ 
he  says,  "  an  inward  prompting  which  now  grows  daily  upotf 
me  that  by  labour  and  intent  study,  which  I  take  to  be  m^ 
portion  in  this  Hfe,  joined  with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature^ 
I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written  to  aftertimes  a^ 
they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die."  There  is  in  the  librarj^ 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  a  manuscript  written  by  Milton* 
in  1641.  It  contains  a  list  of  about  a  hundred  subjects,  jottedj 
down,  apparently  from  time  to  time,  as  they  occurred  to  hisj 
mind.  They  are  all  either  historical  or  Scriptural.  Thd 
historical  subjects  are  chosen  from  British  history,  and  Kingi 
Arthur  appears  among  them.  The  Scriptural  are  taken  frora^ 
both  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament.  Four  are  concerned! 
with  the  Fall  of  Man,  and  for  one  of  these  the  actual  title! 
Paradise  Lost  is  used.  The  plan  of  these  four  is  sketched  out! 
much  more  fully  than  is  the  case  with  the  other  subjects,  somej 
of  which  are  merely  named.  It  is  evident  that  Milton  now  felt^ 
that  he  had  drawn  near  to  the  great  work  which  he  had  seen! 
from  afar  through  so  many  years.  Yet  still  he  did  not  seriously  j 
set  his  hand  to  the  task,  though  he  probably  drew  up  manyj 
238  i 


PARADISE    LOST 

mes  and  wrote  out  some  passages  that  he  incorporated  later 
his  poem.  In  his  pamphlet,  The  Reason  of  Church  Govern- 
nt,  1642,  he  says,  with  regard  to  his  Uterary  projects,  "  The 
iaccompHshment  of  them  lies  not  but  in  a  power  above  man's  to 
promise ;  but  that  none  hath  by  more  studious  ways  en- 
deavoured, and  with  more  unwearied  spirit  that  none  shall,  that 
I  dare  almost  aver  of  myself  as  far  as  life  and  free  leisure  will 
extend,  and  that  the  land  had  once  enfranchised  herself  from 
his  impertinent  yoke  of  Prelaty  under  whose  inquisitorial  and 
yrannical  duncery  no  free  and  splendid  wit  can  flourish. 
Neither  do  I  think  it  shame  to  covenant  with  any  knowing 
•(  ader  that  for  some  few  years  yet  I  may  go  on  trust  with  him 
oward  the  payment  of  what  I  am  indebted,  as  being  a  work 
lot  to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of  youth  or  the  vapours  of  wine, 
ike  that  which  flows  at  waste  from  the  pen  of  some  vulgar 
imorist  or  the  trencher  fury  of  a  rhyming  parasite,  nor  to  be 
)])tained  by  the  invocation  of  Dame  Memory  and  her  Siren 
laughters,  but  by  devout  prayer  to  that  Eternal  Spirit  which 
an  enrich  with  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his 
craphim  with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar  to  touch  and  purify 
he  life  of  whom  he  pleases.  To  this  must  be  added  industrious 
nd  select  reading,  steady  observation,  insight  into  all  seemly 
I  id  generous  acts  and  affairs." 

This  pamphlet  On  Church  Government  shows  that  Milton 
as,  in  1641,  becoming  absorbed  in  the  great  struggle  that  was 
1st  opening  ;  and  for  twenty  years  that  struggle  claimed  all 
is  energies.  He  left  "  a  calm  and  pleasing  soUtariness,  fed 
ith  cheerful  and  confident  thoughts  to  embark  in  a  troubled 
ia  of  noises  and  harsh  disputes."  From  the  remote  heights 
here  he  had  dwelt  apart,  undisturbed  by  the  ordinary  cares 
i  life,  he  had  come  down  to  the  crowded  lowland  ;  and  where 
le  crowd  was  thickest,  the  noise  greatest,  and  the  strife  most 
itter,  there  he  was  to  be  found  during  all  those  unquiet 
ears.  He  fought  hard,  but  he  fought  ineffectually,  for  the 
ioofness  of  his  life  had  taught  him  Httle  concerning  the  nature 
^  man  or  of  the  great  human  forces  with  which  he  now  had 
)  do. 

II  239 


1 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ' 

During  this  period  Milton  wrote  pamphlet  after  pamphlet,^ 
most  of  which  make  painful  reading  for  those  who  have! 
idealized  him  as  the  author  of  Paradise  Lost.  He  attacked! 
the  enemies  of  the  ParUamentary  Party  with  unmeasured, 
abuse.  Taunts,  scoffs,  personal  insults,  spiteful  railing  served, 
him  for  argument.  He  threw  mud,  and  mud  was  thrown  back)^ 
at  him  ;  and  with  it  all  he  probably  failed  to  influence,  in  the 
smallest  degree,  the  course  of  events.  When  the  Common-i 
wealth  was  established  he  became  I^atin  Secretary  to  the^ 
Council  of  State,  and  in  that  capacity  was  involved  in  the? 
undignified  and  disastrous  controversy  with  Salmasius,  sd 
scholar  of  I^eyden  University,  which  was,  as  he  believed,  thej 
final  cause  of  his  blindness.  For  years  his  eyes  had  been  faik; 
ing ;  by  1650  the  sight  of  the  left  had  gone.  His  doctoi^ 
warned  him  that  only  perfect  rest  could  save  the  other.  '*  Thdl 
choice  lay  before  me,"  says  Milton,  "  between  dereHction  of 
a  supreme  duty  and  loss  of  eyesight ;  in  such  a  case  I  could  noti 
listen  to  the  physician,  not  if  iEsculapius  himself  had  spokexl 
from  his  sanctuary  ;  I  could  not  but  obey  that  inward  monitor^] 
I  know  not  what,  that  spake  to  me  from  heaven.  I  considerecj 
with  myself  that  many  had  purchased  less  good  with  worse  ill»!! 
as  they  who  give  their  lives  to  reap  only  glory,  and  I  thereupon! 
concluded  to  employ  the  little  remaining  eyesight  I  was  tQ»l 
enjoy  in  doing  this,  the  greatest  service  to  the  common  weal  it  I 
was  in  my  power  to  render." 

In  the  volume  of  poHtical  literature  which  Milton  was  at  thisi 
time  writing  with  such  fluency  and  fervour,  there  were,  it  need  I 
scarcely  be  said,  many  great  and  noble  passages,  rich  in  all  thei 
graces  that  his  splendid  imagination  could  bestow.  But  these  I 
are,  after  all,  a  poor  exchange  for  the  poems  he  might  havej 
given  us  had  party  strife  not  claimed  him. 

In  his  own  home  Milton  failed  to  find  the  peace  which  might  j 
have  made  up  to  him  for  the  turbulence  of  his  public  career.  I 
He  married  in  1643,  Mary  Powell,  daughter  of  a  Royalist  j 
Oxfordshire  squire.  The  marriage  was  hasty  and  ill-advised,  i 
There  could  be  very  little  prospect  of  sympathy  between  the^ 
grave  poet  of  thirty-five,  with  his  great  enthusiasms  audi 
240 


I 


PARADISE    LOST 

absorbing  projects,  and  the  country  girl  of  seventeen,  used  to 
the  gay  and  stirring  Hfe  of  a  Royalist  household.  Her  hus- 
band's lofty  austerity  chilled  and  frightened  her,  the  long  days 
spent  in  his  quiet,  frugal  home  had  neither  interest  not  variety. 
Milton,  on  his  side,  found  that  she  could  not  enter  into  his  great 
schemes,  and  could  not  give  him  the  intelUgent,  soothing  com- 
panionship he  had  hoped  to  gain.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
month  of  married  life  she  entreated  to  be  allowed  to  pay  a  visit 
to  her  home,  and  once  there,  refused  to  return.  It  was  not 
until  two  years  later  when  the  failure  of  the  RoyaHst  cause 
had  ruined  her  father,  and  placed  the  whole  family  in  danger, 
that  she  sought  forgiveness  and  reconciliation.  Milton,  with 
the  fine  magnanimity  of  his  nature,  not  only  received  her,  but 
sheltered  and  protected  her  relations  in  his  own  home.  Of  the 
seven  years  that  followed  tliis  reconcihation  we  know  Httle. 
Mary  Milton  died  in  1652,  leaving  her  husband  with  three  Uttle 
daughters,  the  oldest  six  years  of  age.  In  1656  he  married 
Catherine  Woodcock,  but  she  died  fifteen  months  later,  and  he 
was  again  left  alone.  His  father,  his  best  and  most  sympa- 
thetic friend,  had  died  in  1646. 

In  1660  came  the  Restoration,  and  with  it  the  end  of  Milton's 
political  career.  For  a  time  he  was  in  danger  of  imprisonment, 
and  was  actually  in  the  custody  of  the  sergeant-at-arms.  He 
suffered  heavy  money  losses,  including  £2000  he  had  placed 
in  Government  securities  under  the  Commonwealth.  But  he 
was  not  held  to  be  of  sufficient  importance  for  the  new  govern- 
ment to  concern  itself  greatly  about  him,  and  he  was  left  in 
peace. 

The  long  interval  of  twenty  years  was  over  ;  the  battle  was 
finished,  the  champion  had  retired,  unsubdued  but  inglorious, 
from  the  field.  Milton  was  free  once  more  to  follow  the  vision 
of  his  earUer  days,  which  for  so  long  had  been  hidden  by  the 
smoke  and  dust  of  the  conflict.  He  must  have  looked  back,  as 
these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind,  to  the  time  which 
seemed  so  long  ago,  when  he  had  just  returned  from  the  Con- 
tinent, young,  hopeful,  ardent,  with  all  the  powers  of  body 
and  mind  of  the  finest  and  most  perfect  temper.    And  then  he 

Q  241 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

must  have  thought  sadly  of  his  present  self  in  the  dark  year  i 
of  1660 — prematurely  old,  bHnd,  and  worn  with  strenuous  \ 
Jiving ;  impoverished,  though  not  actually  poor,  neglected  j 
and  little  thought  of,  owing  his  safety  to  the  contemptuous  ^ 
toleration  of  his  political  opponents.  But  the  bitterest  ■ 
element  in  his  suffering  must  have  been  the  realization  that,  i 
after  all,  the  evil  had  triumphed  over  the  good,  the  saints  I 
of  the  earth  had  been  overthrown  by  the  men  of  Belial,  j 
For  this  was  what  the  Restoration  meant  to  John  Milton  ;  ] 
the  cause  with  which  he  had  so  long  identified  himself,  he  \ 
held,  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  to  be  the  cause  of  God.  j 

If  he  had  sat  down  in  inaction,  pleading  that  he  had  fought  \ 
a  good  fight,  offering,  as  the  fulfilment  of  his  youthful  pledge,  I 
the  work  that  he  had  done  for  his  country  and  his  rehgion,  we  I 
might  have  been  incHned  to  admit  the  justice  of  his  plea.  But  he  ^ 
did  not  do  this.  At  the  age  of  fifty-two  he  began  the  great  work  | 
of  his  life.  His  powers  were  as  great  as  they  had  ever  been,  ^ 
and  were  chastened  and  matured  by  the  experiences  of  his  life. » 

Milton's  first  idea  had  been  to  put  his  great  work  in  the  form 
of  a  drama,  after  the  model  of  the  "  lofty  grave  tragedians  of  '{ 
Greece."  But  as  years  brought  maturity  of  judgment,  a  truer  S 
instinct  led  him  to  the  epic.  So  soon  as  his  short  imprison-  ' 
ment  was  over,  and  he  had  settled  down  in  a  small  house  at  , 
Holborn,  the  few  fragments  of  his  work  which  had  been  pre-  | 
viously  written,  were  brought  out  and  reviewed,  and  work  \ 
was  begun  in  earnest.  And  now  Milton  felt,  to  the  fullest 
extent,  how  terrible  was  the  darkness  that  had  fallen  upon  him.  { 
He  could  not  work  as  he  would,  his  genius  must  wait  upon  ^ 
the  pleasure  of  others ;  and  he  had  no  one  near  him  to  give  ^ 
the  effectual,  ready  help  that  his  infirmity  claimed.  Hired  1 
helpers  failed  through  lack  of  education  and  intelligent  sym-  j 
pathy.  His  daughters,  now  growing  up  to  an  age  at  which  . 
they  might  be  useful,  should  have  been  his  loving,  willing  I 
assistants.  But  they  seem  to  have  had  httle  love  for  their  ] 
father,  and  no  interest  in  this  work.  This  was,  it  cannot  be  ] 
doubted,  partly  Milton's  own  fault.  His  views  concerning  the  | 
nature  and  position  of  women  he  has  set  forth  in  detail  in  some  ] 
242 


i 


PARADISE    LOST 

of  his  prose  works ;  they  were,  he  asserted,  naturally  inferior 
to  man  in  all  respects,  and  were  created  to  minister  to  him  and 
live  in  subjection  to  his  will.  These  theories  he  had  carried 
out  in  the  upbringing  of  his  daughters,  and  the  evil  results  were 
now  to  be  seen.  The  help  he  exacted  from  them  was  given 
in  a  grudging  and  sullen  spirit.  They  had  received  but  Httle 
education,  and  Milton  had  refused  to  have  them  taught  any 
language  but  their  own.  One  tongue,  he  said  scornfully,  was 
enough  for  a  woman.  Yet  when  his  blindness  made  a  reader 
necessary  to  him,  he  was  at  pains  to  teach  them  the  pro- 
nunciation of  five  or  six  languages,  in  which  they  were  com- 
pelled to  read  to  him,  without  having  any  notion  of  the  sense. 
It  is  perhaps  Httle  wonder  that  they  rebelled.  They  did  more. 
Milton's  house  was  mismanaged,  his  money  wasted,  his  servants 
encouraged  to  deceive  him.  A  thousand  petty  miseries  vexed 
and  distracted  his  soul,  and  prevented  him  from  *'  beholding 
the  bright  countenance  of  truth  in  the  quiet  and  still  air  of 
delightful  studies."  He  had,  indeed,  "  fallen  on  evil  days  .  .  . 
in  darkness  .  .  .  and  soUtude."  Yet,  through  all,  the  great 
work  went  on.  Outside  his  own  home  he  found  friends  and 
helpers.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  had  a  special  attraction 
for  young  and  able  men  with  scholarly  tastes.  "  He  had  daily 
about  him,"  we  are  told  by  his  nephew,  Edward  Phillips, 
"  one  or  other  to  read  to  him  ;  some  persons  of  man's  estate, 
who,  of  their  own  accord  greedily  catch'd  at  the  opportunity  of 
being  his  reader,  that  they  might  as  well  reap  the  benefit  of 
what  they  read  to  him,  as  obUge  him  by  the  benefit  of  their 
reading  ;  others  of  younger  years  sent  by  their  parents  to  the 
same  end."  These  bear  witness  to  the  charm  of  his  con- 
versation and  the  winning  cheerfulness  of  his  manner,  quaUties 
which  his  home  relations  failed  to  bring  out.  Milton  was 
unfortunate  in  this,  that  his  complete  absorption  in  ideas  and 
theories  stood  between  him  and  the  ordinary,  everyday 
interests  of  life,  so  that  he  too  often  appeared  harsh  and 
unloving  when  he  was  only  preoccupied. 

After  three  years  of  hard  and  sometimes  distressful  labour 
Paradise  Lost  was  finished,  saving  only  the  repolishing   and 

243 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

revision.    Milton  wrote,  as  he  believed,  under  the  direct  in- 
spiration of  the  Muse — 

My  celestial  patroness,  who  deigns 
Her  nightly  visitation  unimplored. 
And  dictates  to  me  slumb'ring,  or  inspires 
Kasy  my  unpremeditated  verse. 

Of  the  poem  it  is  praise  enough  to  say  that  it  is  worthy  of 
the  long  preparation,  the  pains  and  toil  and  weary  waiting 
which  went  to  its  making.  We  regret  the  long  years  that  Milton 
spent  in  political  controversy,  yet  they  too  helped  to  give  glory 
to  this  crowning  achievement.  The  depth  and  passion  of 
Paradise  Lost  would  have  been  unattainable  to  the  untried 
student  who  knew  sin  and  sorrow  only  as  far-off  evils  that  had 
not  entered  into  his  carefully  cherished  and  sequestered  life. 
^  The  vastness  of  the  conception  needed  mature  powers  for  its 
working  out.  Its  scene  is  the  universe,  its  characters  include 
not  men  alone,  but  devils,  angels — even  God  himself. 

Heaven  he  pictures  as  the  "  pure  empyrean,  high  throned 
above  all  highth,  infinitely  extended,"  and  walled  with  a  crystal 
wall,  with  towers  and  battlements.  A  gate  in  this  wall  opens 
on  to  Chaos — 

A  dark 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound. 
Without  dimension,  where  length,  breadth  and  highth. 
And  time  and  place,  are  lost ;  where  eldest  Night 
And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Nature,  hold 
Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand  : 
For  Hot,  Cold,  Moist,  and  Dry,  four  champions  fierce, 
Strive  here  for  mastery  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms. 

In  the  depths  of  Chaos  is  Hell,  "  the  house  of  woe  and 
pain,"  with  a  fiery  lake  in  the  middle  round  which  Hes  a  dismal 
stretch  of  land  "  that  ever  burned  with  solid,  as  the  lake  with 
liquid  fire,"  and  beyond  lies  "  a  frozen  continent,  dark  and 
wild,  beat  with  perpetual  storms  of  whirlwind  and  dire 
hail."  Our  Universe  God  shaped  out  of  Chaos.  In  six  days 
He  finished  the  work  of  creation,  then  fastened  His  new- 
made  world  safely  by  a  golden  chain  to  heaven.  He  made 
244 


John  Milton 

Pieter  Van  der  Plaas] 

Photo.  W.  A.  MansoU  *  Co. 


:244 


P  PARADISE    LOST 

also  a  staircase,  "  ascending  by  degrees  magnificent  up  to  the 
wall  of  heav'n,"  and  at  the  top  placed  "  a  kingly  palace  gate, 
with  frontispiece  of  diamond  and  gold  embeUished." 

The  hero,  if  so  he  may  be  called,  of  the  epic  is  Satan,  and 
nowhere  has  Milton  shown  more  nobihty  and  largeness  of  con- 
ception than  in  his  presentment  of  this  chief  of  the  fallen  angels. 
The  devil  of  mediaeval  legend,  grotesque  and  horrible,  has 
disappeared.     In  his  place  comes  one  who 

Above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 
Stood  like  a  tow'r  ;  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Arch-angel  ruined,  and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscured.  .  .  . 
,  But  his  face 

IH|^  Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 

^Kl  Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 

^B^  Of  daimtless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 

^M*  Waiting  revenge  :  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 

^F  Signs  of  remorse  and  passion  to  behold 

^V  ■  The  fellows  of  his  crime.  .  .  . 

^H  He  now  prepared  to  speak.  .  .  . 

W/m  ,  Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice  in  spite  of  scorn, 

^^  Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth. 

Soon  after  Paradise  Lost  was  finished  Milton  married  for 
the  third  time,  probably  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  securing 
for  himself  domestic  comfort.  His  third  wife  seems  to  have 
been  a  kindly,  capable  woman  who  managed  his  household  well, 
and  shielded  him  from  the  petty  annoyances  which  before 
had  disturbed  him.  Under  these  happier  circumstances  the 
revision  of  Paradise  Lost  went  on,  and  was  completed  by  1665. 
Then  came  the  dreadful  plague  year,  followed  by  the  year  of 
the  Great  Fire,  which  delayed  the  publication  until  the  autumn 
of  1667.  Milton  was  paid  £5  down  and  was  to  receive  an 
additional  £5  for  each  edition  disposed  of.  He  received  in  his 
lifetime  the  payment  for  the  first  edition,  making  £10  in  all, 
and  after  his  death  his  wife  compounded  for  her  interest  in  the 
poem  for  the  sum  of  £8.  It  gained  at  first  httle  attention,  for^ 
the  spirit  of  the  time  was  not  in  accordance  with  its  lofty  and  ^ 
religious  tone.  It  has  never  become  widely  popular,  thot^h 
ithas  had  in  every  age  its  band  of  enthusiasts.     Milton^s 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

aspiration  that  he  might  find  "  fit  audience,  though  few,"  has 
been  fulfilled. 

The  remaining  years  of  the  poet's  life  were  calm  and  peace- 
ful.   In  1663  he  had  removed  to  a  house  situated  in  what  is 
now  known  as  Bunhill  Row,  and  here  he  lived  until  his  death, 
eleven  years  later.     His  daughters,  who,  still  formed  an  ele- 
ment of  discord  in  his  home,  were  sent  out,  about  1668,  to  learn 
the  art  of  gold  and  silver  embroidery,  in  order  that  they  might 
be  able  to  support  themselves.    His  wife  attended  faithfully  to 
his  material  wants,  and  he  had  devoted  friends,  chief  among 
them  the  young  Quaker,  Thomas  Ellwood,  who  gave  him  ready 
help.    Two  other  great  poems  he  produced  during  those  quiet 
years.  Paradise  Regained  and  Samson  Agonistes,    His  life  was 
simple  and  regular.    He  had  renounced  his  old  habit  of  sitting 
up  far  into  the  night,  though  now,  alas,  the  night  and  the  day 
held  for  him  little  difference.    He  went  to  bed  at  nine,  and  rose 
at  four  in  summer  and  five  in  winter.    Sometimes  a  long  wake- 
ful night  was  spent  in  an  effort  at  composition,  and  yet  in  the 
morning,  not  a  single  line  was  forthcoming  for  dictation  to  the 
amanuensis.    At  other  times  he  composed  readily,  and  next 
day  poured  out  long  passages  which  his  brain  had  fashioned 
during  the  night  hours.    Sometimes  verses  came  to  him  as  he 
walked  in  his  garden,  or  sat  '  contemplating '  in  his  study. 
The  morning  was  given  to  his  work,  the  afternoon  to  exercise 
and  recreation.    In  the  evening  from  six  to  eight  he  received 
his  friends,  and  recreated  his  mind  with  conversation.    His  old 
taste  for  music  and  his  skill  as  a  performer  remained  to  him, 
and  he  was  accustomed  to  play  both  on  the  organ  and  the  bass 
viol.    So  his  days  passed  away.    Visitors  have  told  how  they 
found  him  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door  of  his  house,  clad 
in  a  *'  grey,  coarse,  cloth  coat,"  his  hands,  swollen  with  gout, 
resting  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  shining  "  with  an  unclouded 
light,  just  like  the  eyes  of  one  whose  vision  is  perfect."     He 
grew  gradually  weaker,  and  on  November  8, 1674,  just  a  month 
before  his  sixty-sixth  birthday,  he  died,  "  with  so  Httle  pain 
that  the  time  of  his  expiring  was  not  perceived  by  those  in 
the  room." 
246  I 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
ABSALOM   AND   ACHITOPHEL 

WHEN  Charles  II  came  back  after  his  long  exile,  there 
were  two  great  poets  living  in  England.  One  was 
the  blind  and  prematurely  old  John  Milton,  the  other 
was  John  Dry  den.  Dry  den  was  then  nearly  thirty  years  old 
and  had  left  the  University  of  Cambridge  in  1657.  He  had 
written  one  notable  poem  on  the  death  of  Cromwell,  and  had 
probably  done  a  good  deal  of  unacknowledged  hack-work  for 
the  bookseller  in  whose  house  he  lodged.  The  Restoration, 
which  condemned  Milton  to  poverty  and  obscurity,  gave 
Dryden  a  chance  of  fame  and  fortune.  It  reopened  the 
playhouses  which  the  Puritan  rule  had  closed,  and  thus  restored 
play-writing  to  the  position  it  had  formerly  held  as  the  branch 
of  Uterary  art  Hkely  to  bring  the  quickest  and  fullest  return  both 
in  reputation  and  in  money.  It  gave  an  opportunity  also  for 
adulatory  verse  addressed  to  the  new  ruler,  and  of  this  Dryden 
was  so  quick  to  avail  himself  that  he  produced,  in  the  year 
of  the  Restoration,  his  poem  Astraa  Redux,  a  panegyric  on  the 
coronation  of  Charles.  This  was  followed  by  various  other 
pieces  of  the  same  class,  the  chief  being  Annus  Mirahilis  (1667). 
But  it  was  to  dramatic  poetry  that  Dryden  most  confidently 
trusted.  He  began  liis  career  as  a  playwright  in  1663  with  a 
comedy.  The  Wild  Gallant,  and  for  seventeen  years  he  con- 
tinued to  write  industriously  for  the  stage.  Not  one  among  the 
many  comedies  and  tragedies  that  he  produced  is  of  supreme 
merit,  although  most  of  them  contain  passages  that  show  the 
masterful  way  in  which  he  could  manage  the  metre  he  had 
chosen  for  his  work — the  heroic  couplet,  and  that  have  an 
energy  of  thought  and  diction  peculiarly  Dryden's  own.    They 

247 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
have  done  little,  almost  nothing,  to  increase  his  permanent 
reputation  as  a  poet,  though  they  made  him  famous  in  his 
own  day,  and  provided  him  with  a  comfortable  income  on 
which  to  bring  up  his  three  sons.  The  tone  of  nearly  all  the 
Restoration  literature  is  dissolute  in  the  extreme,  and  Dryden 
allowed  his  work  to  be  tainted  with  the  prevaihng  fault  of  the 
day,  so  that  few  of  his  works  could  be  presented  on  a 
modern  stage.  The  chief  value  of  his  plays  was  as  a  prepara- 
tion for  the  greater  work  that  he  was  to  accomplish  at  a  later 
time.  ''  They  acted,'*  Professor  Saintsbury  says,  "as  a 
filtering  reservoir  for  his  poetical  powers,  so  that  the  stream 
which  when  it  ran  into  them,  was  the  turbid  and  rubbish-laden 
current  oi  Annus  Mirahilis  flowed  out  as  impetuous,  as  strong, 
but  clear  and  without  base  admixture,  in  the  splendid  verse  of 
Absalom  and  Achitophel." 

The  story  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel  is  concerned  with  the 
politics  of  the  day.  Charles  II  had  been  reigning  for  twenty 
years,  and  the  nation  had  begun  to  discover  something  of  the 
real  nature  of  the  king  they  had  welcomed  so  warmly  in  1660. 
One  cause  of  dissatisfaction  lay  in  the  common  rumour  that 
Charles  was,  like  his  brother,  a  Roman  CathoHc  ;  another  in  the 
suspicion  of  a  dishonourable  alliance  with  France.  As  one 
disclosure  followed  another  the  temper  of  the  people  rose  to  a 
dangerous  pitch  of  angry  excitement.  There  were  not  wanting 
men  ready  to  take  advantage  of  this  state  of  f eeUng  for  personal 
or  pohtical  purposes.  In  1678  Titus  Gates,  a  discredited 
clergyman,  pretended  to  discover  a  plot  on  the  part  of  the 
Roman  CathoHcs  to  murder  the  King  and  place  the  Duke  of 
York  on  the  throne.  The  nation,  excited  and  uneasy,  gave 
full  beUef  to  this  and  other  preposterous  stories  which  Gates 
and  his  followers  swore  to  vehemently.  A  panic  followed,  and 
the  unfortunate  victims  accused  by  these  infamous  men  of 
compHcity  in  Popish  plots  had  Uttle  chance  of  justice  from  the 
frenzied  juries  before  whom  they  appeared.  A  series  of 
'  judicial  murders  '  followed.  The  nation  completely  lost  its 
head,  and  a  shuddering  horror  of  their  Roman  CathoUc  neigh- 
bours possessed  all  except  a  small  and  over- mastered  minority. 
248 


PABSALOM    AND    ACHITOPHEL 

The  scheming  and  ambitious  I^ord  Shaftesbury  saw  how  this 
"  no  Popery  "  cry  might  be  used  for  party  purposes.  He 
skilfully  fomented  the  agitation,  and  introduced  in  1679, 
when  the  frenzy  was  at  its  wildest,  a  Bill  to  exclude  the  Duke 
of  York  from  succession  to  the  throne.  Charles  saved  his 
brother's  interests  by  dissolving  ParUament,  but  this  only 
incited  Shaftesbury  to  more  daring  schemes.  Fresh  stories 
of  plots  and  massacres  maintained  the  public  excitement,  and, 
in  1680,  Monmouth,  an  illegitimate  son  of  Charles  II,  was 
openly  paraded  in  London  as  the  heir  to  the  throne,  chosen  by 
the  Protestants.  Soon,  however,  the  tide  began  to  turn.  A 
feeling  of  horror  at  the  butcheries  which  had  been  committed 
in  the  name  of  justice  took  possession  of  the  people.  The 
King  took  advantage  of  these  signs  of  Shaftesbury's  waning 
influence  to  cause  him  to  be  impeached  on  a  charge  of  suborning 
false  witnesses  to  the  plot.  Excitement  rose  again,  for  Shaftes- 
bury was  regarded  by  the  Protestant  party  as  their  main  hope. 
London,  more  especially,  was  devoted  to  him,  and  his  trial  \ 
threw  the  whole  city  into  a  state  of  angry  consternation.  It  4 
was  at  this  crisis,  about  the  middle  of  November  1681,  that 
Absalom  and  Achitophel  appeared.  ^ 

It  is  said  that  Charles  himself  suggested  to  Dryden  that  he 
should  come  to  the  assistance  of  the  Court  party  by  writing  a 
satire  on  its  opponents.  Whether  this  was  so  or  not  cannot 
be  certainly  known,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  Dryden's  work 
did  do  that  party  great  service.  Produced  as  it  was  in  haste, 
at  a  time  when  party  spirit  was  at  its  wildest  and  bitterest,  we 
might  perhaps  have  expected  that  the  poem  would  prove 
simply  a  temporary  squib,  worthless  when  once  let  off.  In- 
stead of  that  it  has  taken  its  place  among  the  classics  of  English 
literature.     It  is  the  greatest  satirical  poem  in  the  language. 

The  poem  is  founded  on  the  account  of  Absalom's  rebellion 
against  Eling  David,  given  in  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  chapters  of  the  Second  Book  of  Samuel.  David 
is,  of  course,  Charles  II,  and  Absalom  is  the  Duke  of  Monmouth. 
Dryden  is  careful  throughout  to  treat  Monmouth  with  tender- 
ness, for  the  King's  affection  for  him  was  well  known.  He  is 
^  249 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

represented  as  being  led  away  by  evil  counsellors,  who  work 
upon  his  consciousness  of  royal  birth  and  kingly  quaUties  to  f 
draw  him  into  an  enterprise  from  which  at  first  he  shrinks  in 
horror.     Extravagant  praise  is  lavished  upon  him  : 

Whate'er  he  did  was  done  with  so  much  ease. 
In  him  alone  'twas  natural  to  please  ; 
His  motions  all  accompanied  with  grace. 
And  Paradise  was  opened  in  his  face. 

For  a  time  all  went  well,  and  ! 

i 

Praised  and  loved  the  noble  youth  remained,  i 

While  David  undisturbed  in  Zion  reigned. 

But  soon  the  people  grew  discontented.  The  Jews  (that  is,  the] 
BngHsh),  I 

A  headstrong,  moody,  murmuring  race 

As  ever  tried  the  extent  and  stretch  of  grace. 

Began  to  dream  they  wanted  liberty.  ' 

A  plot  was  formed,  for  i 

Plots,  true  or  false,  are  necessary  things,  [ 

To  raise  up  commonwealths  and  ruin  kings.  i 

The  movers  in  the  plot  were  the  Jebusites  (Roman  Catholics)  ,| 
and  though  it  failed  it  had  a  "  deep  and  dangerous  consequence."! 

Several  factions  from  this  first  ferment  ^ 

Work  up  to  foam  and  threat  the  government.  * 

Discontented  men  everywhere  seized  the  opportunity  of 
turning  upon  the  monarch  whose  '  fatal  mercy  '  had  in  many 
cases  pardoned  those  who  had  before  shown  themselves  to  be 
his  enemies,  and  had  even  raised  some  of  them  to  '  power  and 
pubHc  office  high.'  Then  follows  the  bitter  and  masterly 
sketch  of  Shaftesbury,  under  the  name  of  Achitophel. 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first,  ^ 

A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst,  j{ 

For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit. 
Sagacious,  bold  and  turbulent  of  wit. 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place. 
In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace  ; 
A  fiery  soul,  which  working  out  its  way. 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 
250 


Il 


John   Dryden 
From  an  engraving  after  Thos.  Hudson 


250 


ABSALOM    AND    ACHITOPHEL 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity, 
H^  Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went  high 

He  sought  the  storms  ;  but  for  a  calm  unfit, 
^  Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit.  ,  .  . 

In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate. 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state. 

This  dangerous  and  unscrupulous  man  looked  round  to  find 
some  one  whom  he  could  set  up  in  opposition  to  King  David, 
and  "  none  was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalom."  So  with 
"studied  arts  to  please"  Achitophel  attempted  to  draw  the 
young  man  into  a  rebellion  against  his  father — at  first  unsuccess- 
fully, for  Absalom  repUes,  "  What  pretence  have  I,  To  take  up 
arms  for  pubHc  liberty  ?  "  But  at  last  he  was  won  over,  and 
Achitophel  proceeded  to  unite  "  the  malcontents  of  all  the 
Israelites,"  chief  among  them  the  "  Solymoean  rout,"  or  city 
rabble — for  Shaftesbury's  great  strength  lay  among  the  citizens 
of  lyondon.  In  the  list  of  those  who  joined  the  rebellion  comes 
iri,  who  stands  for  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 

A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong. 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  ; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chymist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon. 

After  him  comes  Shimei,  or  Slingsby  Bethel,  a  Sheriff  of  London 
and  a  noted  repubUcan. 

When  two  or  three  were  gathered  to  declaim 
Against  the  monarch  of  Jerusalem, 
Shimei  was  always  in  the  midst  of  them. 

Then  Corah,  or  Titus  Oates, 

His  memory,  miraculously  great, 
Could  plots  exceeding  man's  belief  repeat ; 
Which  therefore  cannot  be  accounted  lies. 
For  human  wit  could  never  such  devise. 

Led  by  these  false  friends,  Absalom  raised  the  standard  of 
rebellion. 

Now  what  relief  can  righteous  David  bring  ? 
How  fatal  'tis  to  be  too  good  a  king  ! 

Then  follow  the  names  of  those  who  were  faithful  to  the  King 
in  his  adversity.     Barzillai  (the  Duke  of  Ormond)  "  crowned 

251 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

1 

with  honour  and  with  years,"  then  Hushai  (Laurence  Hyd|J||| 
who  "  joined  experience  to  his  native  truth,"  are  the  chief  of  i 
these.  The  poem  ends  with  a  speech  by  David,  threatening  i 
his  enemies,  with  the  vengeance  they  have  provoked.  "  The  i 
conclusion  of  the  story,"  wrote  Dry  den  in  his  preparatory  note  j 
'*  To  the  Reader,"  '*  I  purposely  forbore  to  prosecute,  because 
I  could  not  obtain  from  myself  to  show  Absalom  unfortunate.  | 
.  .  .  Were  I  the  inventor,  who  am  only  the  historian,  I  should  i 
certainly  conclude  the  piece  with  the  reconcilement  of  Absalom  \ 
to  David.     And  who  knows  but  this  may  come  to  pass  ?  " 

The  poem  was  pubHshed  in  November  1681,  probably  on ! 
the  17th,  just  a  week  before  Shaftesbury's  trial  for  high  treason 
at  the  Old  Bailey.  The  Court  party  probably  hoped  that  the 
poem  would  help  to  ensure  his  conviction,  but  if  so  they  were  ■ 
disappointed.  I^ondon  remained  faithful  to  Shaftesbury,  and  \ 
the  grand  jury  threw  out  the  Bill  of  indictment.  Nevertheless  1 
Absalom  and  Achitophel  must  be  accounted  a  great  success.  It  i 
was  pubhshed  anonymously,  though  the  fact  of  Dryden's  1 
authorship  was  well  known.  Its  sale  was  enormous.  The  first : 
edition  was  soon  exhausted,  and  a  second,  which  contained  a  i 
few  additions,  was  produced  within  a  month.  The  Court  party  | 
was  delighted,  and  the  Exclusionists  were  furious.  j 

Several  answers  to  this  great  satire — which  was  being  read  j 
everywhere,  and  extolled  or  reviled  according  to  the  opinions; 
of  the  readers — were  attempted.  But  none  of  them  was  worthy  ; 
of  serious  consideration  and  most  contented  themselves  with  | 
abuse  of  the  author,  and  neglected  to  answer  the  charges  he  i 
had  made.  Dry  den  replied  to  them  collectively  in  a  second : 
poem  called  The  Medal.  Shaftesbury's  friends  had  caused 
a  medal  to  be  struck  commemorating  his  acquittal,  and  it  was  '' 
on  this  that  Dry  den  based  his  new  satire,  pubHshed  March  1682.  j 
"  I  have  only  one  favour  to  desire  of  you  at  parting,"  said  j 
Dryden,  at  the  end  of  his  Epistle  to  the  Whigs,  which  preceded  I 
The  Medal,  "  that  when  you  think  of  answering  this  poem,  you  I 
would  employ  the  same  pens  against  it  who  have  combated  with  j 
so  much  success  against  Absalom  and  Achitophel ;  for  then  you  ; 
may  assure  yourselves  of  a  clear  victory,  without  the  least  reply. 
252 


AfiSALOM    AND    ACHITOPHEL 

Rail  at  me  abundantly,  and,  not  to  break  a  custom,  do  it 
k  without  wit."  The  '  favour  '  was  granted  ;  or  if  the  answers 
I  to  The  Medal  were  not  by  the  same  hand  as  were  the  answers  to 
Absalom  and  Achitophel,  they  were  equally  scurrilous  and 
equally  dull.  One,  written  by  Thomas  Shadwell,  passed  all 
bounds  of  decency.  It  was  a  bitter  personal  attack  upon 
Dryden,  who  was  accused  of  the  most  scandalous  conduct  in 
both  his  pubUc  and  his  private  life.  Dryden  retahated  with 
Mac  Flecknoe,  which  later  gave  Pope  the  idea  for  his  Dunciad. 
Nor  was  this  the  only  castigation  that  Shadwell  received. 

In  November  1682  appeared  the  second  part  of  Absalom  and 
I  Achitophel.  The  pubhsher,  Jacob  Tonson,  gave  the  following 
I  account  of  its  origin  and  authorship.  *'  In  the  year  1680  Mr. 
Dryden  undertook  the  poem  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel  upon 
the  desire  of  King  Charles  the  Second.  The  performance  was 
applauded  by  every  one,  and  several  persons  pressing  him  to 
write  a  second  part,  he,  upon  declining  it  himself,  spoke  to 
Mr.  Tate  to  write  one,  and  gave  him  his  advice  in  the  direction 
of  it ;  and  that  part  beginning  : 

Next  these,  a  tioop  of  busy  spirits  press, 

and  ending, 

To  talk  like  Doeg  and  to  write  like  thee, 
containing  near  two  hundred  verses,  were  entirely  Mr.  Dryden's 
composition,  besides  some  touches  in  other  places." 

Dryden  was  now  a  noted  man,  the  head  of  the  republic  of 
letters,  a  great  Uterary  dictator,  as  Ben  Jonson  had  been  before 
him.  His  headquarters  were  at  Will's  Coffee-House,  Covent 
Garden.  Here  from  the  armchair  which  was  placed  near  the 
fire  in  winter,  and  on  the  balcony  in  summer,  he  talked  with  the 
crowd  of  wits  and  gallants  who  gathered  round  him.  On  one 
of  these  occasions,  during  the  last  year  of  Dryden's  life,  it  is 
said  that  a  little  boy,  not  twelve  years  old,  undersized,  delicate 
and  deformed,  but  with  brilliant  eyes  shining  out  of  his  pale  face, 
was  brought  into  the  room  where  he  sat.  The  boy  was  the 
son  of  Roman  CathoHc  parents  who  lived  at  Binfield,  but  in 
1699  he  was  a  boarder  at  a  school  near  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and 
at  his  earnest  entreaties,  his  schoolmaster  had  taken  him  to 

253 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

'  Will's  '  that  he  might  catch  a  ghmpse  of  the  great  man.  His 
name  was  Alexander  Pope,  and  he  was  to  be  England's  next 
famous  poet. 

Dryden's  two  great  poems,  Religio  Laid  (1682)  and  Th& 
Hind  and  the  Panther  (1687),  with  some  well-known  elegies  and 
odes  written  during  these  later  years,  raised  his  reputation  to  a  i 
very  high  point,  and  he  was  in  a  position  of  comfortable  in- 
dependence when  the  Revolution  of  1688  swept  away  his  offices  j 
and  pensions.    The  last  years  of  his  life  were  spent,  not  inj 
poverty,  but  in  reduced  and  straitened  circumstances,  though  i 
he  retained  his  position  as  literary  dictator.     Being  forced  to  j 
write  for  a  living  he  returned  again  to  the  theatre,  but  met  with 
little  success.     He  next  attempted  some  classical  translations, 
and  these  were  very  favourably  received,  as  was  his  modernized 
rendering  of  parts  of  Chaucer,  produced  during  the  last  year  of  j 
his  life.     He  died  on  April  30,  1700.  ^ 


254 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
THE   PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 

WHEN  Milton  in  1667  published  his  Paradise  Lost  he 
probably  believed  himself  to  be  the  last  prophet  of  a 
fallen  cause,  and  as  such  he  appeared  to  the  small 
company  of  cultured  Puritans — remnant  of  a  great  party — 
that  gathered  round  him  during  his  later  years.  A  new  litera-^ 
ture  was  growing  up — the  brilUant,  witty,  dissolute  literature 
of  the  Restoration.  Dry  den  and  Wycherley  were  at  work  on 
their  Hcentious  comedies,  and  a  crowd  of  courtly  writers — 
Waller,  Roscommon,  Sedley  and  Rochester — were  writing 
verses  whose  lightness  and  grace  could  not,  to  those  who 
remembered  the  solemn  music  of  Paradise  Lost  and  the  sober 
loveliness  of  Comus,  atone  for  an  utter  lack  of  lofty  or  serious 
purpose.  They  looked  around  and  saw  no  one  who  could 
be  the  Ehsha  to  the  great  prophet  they  revered,  and  receive 
the  mantle  of  inspiration  which  was  soon  to  fall  from  his 
shoulders. 

Yet  the  man  destined  to  be  Milton's  successor  as  the  prophet 
of  religion  was,  at  that  very  time,  almost  ready  to  take  up  his 
great  work.  He  was  one  whom  Milton  would  probably  have 
been  loth  to  acknowledge  as  a  fellow-worker,  for  he  beloi^ed 
to  the  *  common  people,'  the  *  miscellaneous  rabble,'  that 
the  poet  of  Paradise  Lost  regarded  with  lofty  contempt.  His 
name  was  John  Bunyan,  and  he  came,  as  he  tells  us,  "  of  a 
low  and  inconsiderable  generation,"  his  father's  house  "  being 
of  that  rank  that  is  meanest  and  most  despised  of  all  the 
families  in  the  land."  During  the  five  years  of  studious  retire- 
ment which  Milton  spent  at  Horton,  John  Bunyan,  some  miles 
away,  was  growing  up  in  the  home  of  his  father,  the  poor 

255 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

tinker   of   Elstow.     The   lives   of   these   two   representative 
Puritans  present,  indeed,  in  almost  every  particular  the  most 
complete  contrast.     In  place  of  Milton's  early  devotion  to 
learning  we  have  Bunyan's  confession  that  although  "  not- 
withstanding  the   meanness   and   inconsiderableness   of    my 
parents,  it  pleased  God  to  put  it  into  their  hearts  to  put  me  to  i 
school,  to  learn  me  both  to  read  and  write  ;  the  which  I  als< 
attained  according  to  the  rate  of  other  men's  children,"  yel 
**  to  my  shame  I  confess  I  did  soon  lose  that  Httle  I  learned] 
even  almost  utterly."    At  an  age  when  Milton  was  still  a 
student  at  Cambridge,  Bunyan  had  served  for  a  year  in  thej 
ParUamentary  army,  had  married,   was  the  father  of  twoi 
children,  and  was  earning  a  Uving  for  his  family  by  the  exercise  j 
of  his  father's  trade.     During  the  latter  years  of  the  Common- ! 
wealth  he  added  to  these  labours  the  work  of  a  preacher  of  the  i 
Baptist  community  ;  and  the  Restoration,  which  drove  Milton  j 
into  retirement,  placed  John  Bunyan  in  jail,  as  an  offender  I 
against  the  newly  revived  Act  of  Uniformity.      In  jail  hei 
remained  for  twelve  years  until  the  Declaration  of  Indulgence! 
issued  by  Charles  II  released  him  in  1672.     He  took  up  hisj 
work  as  a  preacher  once  more,  and  during  the  years  which 
saw  Milton's  decline  and  death,  his  fame  increased  so  that  he 
became  known  as  the  greatest  Hving   Protestant  preacher. 
In  1675  he  was  again  imprisoned,  and  while  in  jail  he  began] 
his  great  work.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.    He  was  released  early  j 
in  1676,  and  left  unmolested  in  his  work,  until  his  death  in: 
1688. 

The  mental  and  spiritual  development  of  these  two  great  | 
men,  shows  an  even  greater  contrast  than  their  outward  circum- 
stances.    The  nature  of  John  Milton  expanded  freely  and 
naturally,  as  a  flower  opens  under  favourable  influences  of  sun-  j 
shine  and  fresh  air.     But  John  Bunyan  reached  the  maturity  j 
of  his  powers  through  agony  and  striving,  with  the  bursting 
of  strong  chains,  with  hard  blows  that  wounded  the  man  while 
they  broke  his  fetters.     The  conviction  of  sin  worked  in  him  i 
so  strongly  that  when  he  was  only  nine  or  ten  years  old  he ; 
believed  that  he  **  had  few  equals  "  for  cursing,  swearing,  lying  j 
256  .  I 


THE    PILGRIM^S    PROGRESS 

and  blaspheming  the  holy  name  of  God.  "  Yea,  so  settled  and 
rooted  was  I  in  these  things,  that  they  became  as  a  second 
nature  to  me  ;  the  which,  as  I  have  also  with  soberness  con- 
sidered since,  did  so  offend  the  I^ord,  that  even  in  my  childhood 
he  did  scare  and  affrighten  me  with  fearful  dreams,  and  did 
terrify  me  with  fearful  visions.  For  often,  after  I  had  spent  this 
and  the  other  day  in  sin,  I  have  in  my  bed  been  greatly  afflicted, 
while  asleep,  with  the  apprehensions  of  devils  and  wicked 
spirits,  who,  still  as  I  then  thought,  laboured  to  draw  me  away 
with  them,  of  which  I  could  never  be  rid." 

We  are  quite  sure,  from  the  records  of  Bunyan's  Hfe  and  from 
the  instances  that  he  gives  us  of  specific  offences,  that  he  took 
the  very  darkest  view  of  his  own  spiritual  condition,  and  that 
what  appeared  to  him  as  terrible  sin  was  often  nothing  more 
than  the  natural  thoughtlessness  and  high  spirits  of  youth. 
But  he  spoke  according  to  his  convictions,  and  the  agony 
that  he  suffered  was  as  real  as  if  it  had  followed  the  blackest 
crime.  All  through  his  childhood  his  torments  continued,  but 
as  he  grew  older  "  those  terrible  dreams  did  leave  me,  which 
also  I  soon  forgot ;  for  my  pleasures  did  quickly  cut  off  the 
remembrance  of  them  as  if  they  had  never  been,  ...  so  that 
until  I  came  to  the  state  of  marriage,  I  was  the  very  ringleader 
of  all  the  youth  that  kept  me  company,  in  all  manner  of  vice 
and  ungodUness."  With  marriage  came  a  change  of  life.  "  My 
mercy,"  says  Bunyan,  "  was  to  light  upon  a  wife  whose  father 
was  counted  godly.  This  woman  and  I,  though  we  came 
together  as  poor  as  poor  might  be,  not  having  so  much  house- 
hold stuff  as  a  dish  or  spoon  between  us  both,  yet  this  she 
had  for  her  part.  The  Plain  Mans  Pathway  to  Heaven  and  The 
Practice  of  Piety,  which  her  father  had  left  her  when  he  died." 
In  these  she  read  with  her  husband,  helping  him  to  recover  the 
lost  knowledge  of  his  schooldays,  and  holding  up  before  him 
the  example  of  her  father,  who  had  Hved  "  a  strict  and  holy  life 
both  in  words  and  deeds."  "  Wherefore  these  books,  with  the 
relation,  though  they  did  not  reach  my  heart  to  awaken  it 
about  my  sad  and  sinful  state,  yet  they  did  beget  within  me 
some  desires  to  reform  my  vicious  life  and  fall  in  very  eagerly 

R  257 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

with  the  reHgion  of  the  times,  to  wit,  to  go  to  church  twice 
a  day,  and  that  too  with  the  foremost."     From  this  merely  \ 
formal  reHgion  he  was  soon  driven.     One  day  the  sermon  at  : 
church  dealt  with  Sabbath-breaking,  in  which  matter  Bunyan  \ 
was  a  great  offender.     A  conviction  of  guilt  came  upon  him, 
"  but  behold  it  lasted  not,  for  before  I  had  well  dined,  the  ; 
trouble  began  to  go  off  my  mind,  and  my  heart  returned  to  its  ] 
old  course."     "  But  the  same  day,"  he  goes  on,  "  as  I  was  in  ' 
the  midst  of  a  game  of  cat,  and  having  struck  it  one  blow  from  j 
the  hole,  just  as  I  was  about  to  strike  it  a  second  time,  a  voice  ' 
did  suddenly  dart  from  heaven  into  my  soul,  which  said,  *  Will  ' 
thou  leave  thy  sins  and  go  to  heaven,  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  I 
to  hell  ?  '     At  this  I  was  put  to  an  exceeding  maze  ;  wherefore,  j 
leaving  my  bat  upon  the  ground,  I  looked  up  to  heaven,  and 
was  as  if  1  had  with  the  eyes  of  my  understanding  seen  the  1 
Lord  Jesus  looking  down  upon  me,  as  being  very  hotly  dis-  ' 
pleased  with  me,  and  as  if  he  did  severely  threaten  me  with  some  | 
grievous  pum'shment  for  these  and  other  ungodly  practices."  ' 
Conviction  of  sin  was  thus  reawakened,  and  for  years  Bunyan  < 
was  tormented  with  fear  of  God's  wrath  and  of  hell  fire.  J 
Sometimes  a  Httle  comfort  came  to  him  and  he  was  able  to  lay  j 
hold  on  the  promises  of  Holy  Scripture ;   then  again  despair  ^ 
overwhelmed  him  and  he  felt  that  he  was  lost.     One  by  one 
he  gave  up  the  sinful  practices  that  he  beHeved  were  keeping 
him  from  God — swearing,  to  which  he  tells  us  he  was  inordinately 
given  ;  ringing  the  church  bells,  which  seemed  to  him  so  great 
a  sin  that  the  thought  that  the  steeple  might  fall  upon  him  in 
punishment  "  did  so  continually  shake  my  mind  that  I  durst 
not  stand  at  the  steeple-door  any  longer,  but  was  forced  to 
flee  "  ;   and  dancing,  "  I  was  full  a  year  before  I  could  quite 
leave  that."     Still  he  came  no  nearer  to  finding  peace.     "  I  was 
tossed  between  the  devil  and  my  own  ignorance,  and  so  per- 
plexed, especially  at  some  times,  that  I  could  not  tell  what 
to  do."     "  Thus  I  continued  for  a  time  all  on  flame  to  be 
converted  to  Jesus  Christ."     "  I  was  more  loathsome  in  mine 
own  eyes  than  a  toad,  and  I  thought  I  was  so  in  God's  eyes 
too." 
258 


John  Bunyan 

Thomas  Sadler 
Photo.  W.  A.  •  ManaeU'ck.  Co. 


258 


THE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 

At  last,  with  many  falls,  and  groans  of  agony,  and  fresh 

iginnings,  he  came  to  a  place  of  peace.  **  But  because  my 
former  frights  and  anguish  were  very  sore  and  deep,  therefore  it 
oft  befell  me  still  as  it  befalleth  those  that  have  been  scared 
with  fire.  I  thought  every  voice  was  Fire,  Fire,  every  little 
touch  would  hurt  my  tender  conscience." 

The  worst  part  of  the  spiritual  conflict  was  over,  but  there 
was  other  discipline  for  John  Bunyan  before  his  faith  could  be 
perfected.  He  became  a  preacher,  and  was  "  indicted  for  an 
upholder  and  maintainer  of  unlawful  assemblies  and  con- 
venticles, and  for  not  conforming  to  the  national  worship  of 
the  Church  of  England."  For  this  "  being  deUvered  up  to  the 
jailer's  hand,  I  was  had  home  to  prison,  and  there  have  lain  now 
complete  for  twelve  years."  Here  he  found  a  great  increase  of 
spiritual  content,  and  joy  in  the  things  of  reHgion.  **  But  not- 
withstanding these  helps  I  found  myself  a  man  encompassed 
with  infirmities ;  the  parting  with  my  wife  and  poor  children 
hath  often  been  to  me  in  this  place  as  pulHng  the  flesh  from 
the  bones,  and  that  not  only  because  I  am  somewhat  too  fond 
of  these  great  mercies,  but  also  because  I  would  have  often 
brought  to  my  mind  the  many  hardships,  miseries  and  wants 
that  my  poor  family  were  like  to  meet  with  should  I  be  taken 
from  them."  During  this  imprisonment  Bunyan  wrote  three 
books,  Profitable  Meditations,  a  verse  dialogue  ;  The  Holy  City, 
which  originated  in  a  sermon  which  he  preached  to  the  other 
inmates  of  the  jail  one  Sunday  morning ;  and  Grace 
Abounding  to  the  Chief  of  Sinners,  the  famous  autobiography 
from  which  the  quotations  given  in  this  chapter  have  been 
taken. 

During  his  second  imprisonment  Bunyan  began  to  write  his 
book.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Here  again  we  note  a  great 
difference  between  the  manner  in  which  his  work  was  evolved, 
and  the  long  thought  and  careful  preparation  which  went  to  the 
making  of  Paradise  Lost.  His  own  words,  though  put  into 
verse  which  has  in  itself  httle  merit,  give  a  more  lively  and 
realistic  account  of  the  way  in  which  the  book  originated  than 
any  commentator  can  hope  to  put  together. 

259 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

When  at  the  first  I  took  my  pen  in  hand 
Thus  for  to  write,  I  did  not  understand 
That  I  at  all  should  make  a  little  book 
In  such  a  mode  :  nay,  I  had  undertook 
To  make  another,  which,  when  almost  done. 
Before  I  was  aware,  I  tWs  begun. 

And  thus  it  was  :  I,  writing  of  the  way 

And  race  of  saints  in  this  our  gospel-day. 

Fell  suddenly  into  an  allegory 

About  their  journey  and  the  way  to  glory, 

In  more  than  twenty  things  which  I  set  down. 

This  done,  I  twenty  more  had  in  my  crown  ; 

And  they  again  began  to  multiply. 

Like  sparks  that  from  the  coals  of  fire  do  fly. 

Nay  then,  thought  I,  if  that  you  breed  so  fast, 

I'll  put  you  by  yourselves,  lest  you  at  last  ^ 

Should  prove  ad  infinitum,  and  eat  out 

The  book  that  I  already  am  about. 

Well,  so  I  did  ;  but  yet  I  did  not  think 

To  show  to  all  the  world  my  pen  and  ink 

In  such  a  mode  ;  I  only  thought  to  make 

I  knew  not  what :  nor  did  I  imdertake 

Thereby  to  please  my  neighbour  ;  no,  not  I ; 

I  did  it  my  own  self  to  gratify.  .  .  . 

Well  when  I  had  thus  put  mine  ends  together,  i 

I  showed  them  others  that  I  might  see  whether  i 

They  would  condemn  them,  or  them  justify  ;  I 

And  some  said,  Let  them  live  ;  some.  Let  them  die :  j 

Some  said,  John,  print  it ;  others  said.  Not  so  :  ] 

Some  said  it  might  do  good  ;  others  said.  No.  \ 

I 

Now  was  I  in  a  strait,  and  did  not  see  \ 

Which  was  the  best  thing  to  be  done  by  me  :  ] 

At  last  I  thought.  Since  ye  are  thus  divided, 

I  print  it  will ;  and  so  the  case  decided.  j 

For,  thought  I,  some  I  see  would  have  it  done. 

Though  others  in  that  channel  do  not  run  :  j 

To  prove,  then,  who  advised  for  the  best. 

Thus  I  thought  fit  to  put  it  to  the  test. 

! 

The  test  showed  that  Bunyan  had  done  right  in  publishing  his 

work.     It  is  computed  that  one  hundred  thousand  copies  were  | 

sold  in  Bunyan' s  own  lifetime.     Nor  was  its  literary  influence  \ 

confined  to  his  own  country.     Three  years  after  its  publica-  i 

tion,  it  was  reprinted  by  the  Puritan  colony  in  America,  there  i 

receiving,  as  Bunyan  himself  tells  us,  "  much  loving  counten-  i 

ance."     And  there  it  has  continued  ever  since,  in  an  untold  ' 

number  of  editions ;   and,  with  Shakespeare,  it  forms  part  of  \ 

260 


THE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 

the  literary  bond  which  unites  the  two  English-speaking  peoples 
on  each  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  was  translated  into  Dutch, 
French  and  German,  and  these  editions  also  were  sold  in  large 
numbers. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  written  "  in  the  similitude  of 
a  dream/'  "  As  I  walked  through  the  wilderness  of  this 
world,"  it  begins,  "  I  lighted  on  a  certain  place  where  was 
a  den,  and  laid  me  down  in  that  place  to  sleep  ;  and  as  I 
slept,  I  dreamed  a  dream."  The  dream  showed  the  passage 
of  a  man  whose  name  was  Christian,  from  the  city  of  Destruc- 
tion, along  the  narrow  way  and  through  the  Valley  of 
HumiUation  and  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  to  the 
Celestial  City.  All  the  difficulties  which  beset  a  man  in  his 
efforts  to  find  salvation,  the  difficulties  with  which  Bunyan 
himself  had  so  manfully  wrestled,  are  shown  under  the  form  of 
an  allegory.  Spenser  had  dealt  with  a  similar  subject,  and  had 
treated  it  allegorically  ;  but  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  bears  little 
likeness  to  the  Faerie  Queene.  Its  meaning  is  plain  and  un- 
encumbered, and  is  consistent  throughout ;  there  is  no  shifting 
of  the  ground  or  confusing  of  the  issues.  Its  scene,  like  that  of 
Paradise  Lost,  includes  earth,  heaven  and  hell.  But  Bunyan 
does  not  attempt  to  frame  a  complete  plan  of  the  universe,  or  to 
transport  his  readers  to  vast  ilUmitable  regions  such  as  give 
grandeur  to  the  action  of  Milton's  poem.  His  scenes  are  the 
common  scenes  of  earth — mountains  and  valleys,  rivers, 
precipices,  miry  roads,  gardens  and  houses  :  each  of  these  has 
a  spiritual  significance  which  is  made  clear  in  perfectly  plain 
and  definite  fashion  by  the  name  which  is  given  to  it — the 
Slough  of  Despond,  the  Valley  of  Humiliation,  the  Delectable 
Mountains.  His  characters  are  labelled  in  the  same  way,  so 
that  when  Obstinate,  PUable,  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman,  Mr. 
Talkative  or  Mr.  Greatheart  makes  his  appearance,  the  reader 
knows  at  once  how  he  is  going  to  behave,  and  the  nature  of ' 
the  part  he  will  take  in  the  action.  Yet  the  names  are  so  aptly 
fitted,  the  scenes  and  characters  are  introduced  so  naturally, 
the  personified  virtues  and  vices  are  so  exactly  like  the  ordinary 
men  that  one  meets  every  day  in  real  life,  that  the  reader  is  never 

261 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ] 

either  irritated  or  bored,  but  is  interested  in  the  story  as  a, 
story  although  the  moral  is  writ  so  large  that  one  might  well ; 
imagine  it  would  allow  no  attention  to  be  given  to  anything  but ; 
itself.  ! 

The  world  as  Bunyan  sees  it  in  his  dream,  is  a  town  called  | 
the  City  of  Destruction,  which  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  widel 
plain.  Heaven  is  the  celestial  city,  built  upon  a  mighty  hill' 
in  the  country  of  Beulah,  whose  air  is  very  sweet  and  pleasant, 
where  the  birds  sing  continually  and  every  day  the  flowers  | 
appear  on  the  earth  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the 
land.  Its  foundations  are  higher  than  the  clouds,  it  is  builded 
of  pearls  and  precious  stones,  also  the  streets  thereof  are  paved; 
with  gold.  Before  it  flows  the  dark  river  of  Death,  and  there : 
is  no  bridge  to  go  over  and  it  is  very  deep.  Hell  lies  between 
Heaven  and  Earth,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  ;  its  i 
mouth  stands  hard  by  the  wayside,  and  ever  and  anon  flame  | 
and  smoke  come  out  in  abundance  with  sparks  and  hideous  j 
noises.  - 

Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  and  significant  instance  of  the  \ 
difference  between  the  methods  of  Bunyan  and  Milton  is  their 
presentation  of  the  Devil.  Milton's  Satan  we  have  seen  ;  here  j 
is  Bunyan's.  Apollyon,  the  'foul  fiend,'  was  hideous  to' 
behold  :  "He  was  clothed  with  scales  Hke  a  fish  (and  they  are , 
his  pride),  he  had  wings  like  a  dragon,  and  feet  Hke  a  bear,  and  | 
out  of  his  belly  came  fire  and  smoke,  and  his  mouth  was  as  the  i 
mouth  of  a  lion."  He  fought  with  Christian  in  the  Valley  of  i 
Humiliation,  and  the  sore  combat  lasted  for  above  half  a  day.  i 
"  In  this  combat  no  man  can  imagine  unless  he  had  seen  and 
heard,  as  I  did,"  says  the  dreamer,  "  what  yelUng  and  hideous  \ 
roaring  Apollyon  made  all  the  time  of  the  fight ;  he  spake  ■ 
like  a  dragon.  It  was  the  dreadfullest  sight  that  ever  Ij 
saw."  Apollyon,  when  he  was  vanquished,  "spread  forth' 
his  dragon  wings  and  sped  him  away,  that  Christian  for  a^ 
season  saw  him  no  more." 

This,  as  we  call  it  now,  is  the  vulgar  conception  of  the  devil ;] 
most  of  us  have  outgrown  the  belief  which  Bunyan  held  so| 
fervently.  To  him  Apollyon  was  a  real  being  ;  he  himself,  inj 
262 


THE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 

Ids  earlier  days,  had  dreaded  that  the  fiend  might  come  in  just 
such  a  form  and  carry  him  off.  To  Bunyan,  Milton's  Satan 
^vould  have  been  unintelligible.  He  had  not  the  sublimity  of 
imagination  which  could  dispense  with  outward  and  visible 
signs,  and  see  in  the  careworn,  dignified,  and  only  less  than 
noble  figure  that  Milton  presents,  a  more  awful  being  than  the 
most  terrifying  monster  with  horns  and  hoofs.  Yet  Bunyan 
possessed  two  quahties  that  Milton  lacked,  and  these  gave 
him  a  hold  upon  the  hearts  of  common  men,  so  that  where 
Milton  has  one  reader,  Bunyan  counts  his  by  hundreds.  He 
had,  in  the  largest  degree,  that  hearty  human  sympathy 
which  was  so  conspicuously  wanting  in  the  other  ;  and  he  had 
besides,  though  it  was  often  obscured  by  his  intense  earnestness, 
the  gift  of  humour.  He  drew  men  to  him  by  the  force  of  his 
personal  qualities.  "  In  countenance,"  one  of  his  friends  tells 
us,  "  he  appeared  to  be  of  a  stern  and  rough  temper,  but  in  his 
conversation  mild  and  affable  ;  not  given  to  loquacity  or  to 
much  discourse  in  company  unless  some  urgent  occasion 
required  it :  observing  never  to  boast  of  himself  or  his  parts 
but  rather  to  seem  low  in  his  own  eyes,  and  submit  himself  to 
the  judgment  of  others  ;  abhorring  lying  and  swearing,  being 
just,  in  all  that  lay  in  his  power,  to  his  word  ;  not  seeming  to 
revenge  injuries,  loving  to  reconcile  differences  and  make 
friendships  with  all.  He  had  a  sharp  quick  eye,  with  an 
excellent  discerning  of  persons,  being  of  good  judgment  and 
quick  wit." 

For  twelve  years  after  he  was  released  from  his  second 
imprisonment,  Bunyan  lived  peaceably  and  quietly  in  Bedford. 
The  success  of  the  first  part  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  had  shown 
him  his  power  as  a  writer  and  encouraged  him  to  go  on  with  this 
branch  of  his  work.  He  revised  Part  I  of  his  book,  and  made 
some  notable  additions  to  it.  In  1680  he  pubHshed  The  Life 
and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman,  which  forms  a  kind  of  companion 
picture  to  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  describing  the  downward 
career  of  a  man  wholly  given  over  to  evil.  In  1682  was  pub- 
lished Bunyan' s  second  great  allegory.  The  Holy  City.  In  1685 
appeared   the   second   part   of    The   Pilgrim's   Progress.     It 

263 


i 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE  , 

describes  the  journey  of  Christian's  wife,  and  her  four  children; 
to  the  celestial  city,  and  is  very  far  inferior  both  in  interest 
and  in  style,  to  the  first  part. 

Bunyan  died  in  1688,  a  few  months  before  the  Prince  of 
Orange  landed  in  England.  He  had  ridden  from  Bedford  toi 
Reading  on  one  of  the  errands  of  mediation  which  were  commonl 
to  his  later  years,  and  for  which  his  peace-loving  nature  and| 
the  great  weight  which  men  of  his  own  religious  community!; 
attached  to  his  opinion,  made  him  especially  fitted.  He  was  5 
riding  home,  by  way  of  I^ondon,  when  a  storm  came  on,  and? 
before  he  could  find  shelter  he  was  wet  through.  He  was| 
in  a  weak  state  of  health,  the  result  of  an  attack  of  the  '  sweat- 1 
ing  sickness '  from  which  he  had  suffered  in  the  previous  year,'! 
and  the  chill  which  he  sustained  through  this  unfortunate  f 
accident  brought  on  a  fever.  He  reached  the  house  of  onej 
of  his  lyondon  friends,  and  there,  ten  days  later  he  died.  He:r 
was  buried  in  the  famous  burying-ground  of  the  Dissenters  at  ? 
Bunhill  Fields.  ! 

Bunyan  left  behind  him,  in  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  a  unique:!t 
monument.  The  book  can  be  read  with  interest  and  delight  j 
by  children,  by  the  unlearned  and  ignorant,  by  cultured  men  ] 
of  the  world  and  by  great  scholars.  It  is  a  religious  work,  i 
written  in  an  age  that  was  bitterly  controversial,  yet  there' 
is  in  it  no  bitterness  and  no  controversy  ;  Nonconformists  \ 
and  Anglicans  alike  can  read  it  without  disagreement.  It  was^ 
written  by  a  man  who  was  almost  entirely  without  education,  \ 
whose  library  had  consisted  of  the  Bible,  Foxe^s  Book  ofi 
Martyrs,  and  a  few  popular  religious  treatises  ;  and  it  challenges^ 
comparison  with  two  of  the  greatest  works  in  English  literature 
— ^Milton's  Paradise  Lost  and  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene — written  | 
by  men  who  were  both  scholars  and  great  literary  artists.  ^ 
Yet  the  comparison  shows  that,  as  a  religious  work,  it  has  had  j 
far  greater  influence  than  Paradise  Lost,  and,  as  an  allegory,  it ; 
is  far  nearer  perfection  than  is  the  Faerie  Queene. 

I 
264  I 


BOOK  TWO 

The  Augustan  Age 

'f  I  ^HB  reign  of  Queen  Anne  is  the  urban  age  of  English 
I  literature.  *  The  town '  absorbed  the  attention  of 
JL  the  writers  both  of  poetry  and  of  prose.  Dryden's  fine 
and  clear-cut  style  was  brought  to  a  still  higher  state  of 
polished  perfection,  though  some  of  its  vigour  was  lost  in  the 
process.  The  grossness  of  the  previous  age  was  less  apparent, 
though  many  great  works  were  still  disfigured  by  it.  Political 
literature  resulted  from  the  disturbed  condition  of  the  country 
and  the  heated  state  of  parties,  and  theological  literature  from 
the  new  theories  concerning  reUgion.  No  great  work  of  the 
highest  order  was  produced,  but  much  that  is  worthy  of 
attention  by  virtue  of  its  concise  and  clear  expression  and  its 
pleasant,  easy  flow  of  carefully  thought-out  ideas. 


265 


■■  CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  TATLER  :  THE   SPECTATOR 

■ /^""^V  N  April  12,  1709,  the  numerous  coffee-houses  of  Queen 
I  1  Anne's  lyondon  were  stirred  by  a  small  thrill  of  pleasant 
V«>^  excitement.  Copies  of  a  new  periodical,  with  the  in- 
viting and  suggestive  name  of  The  Tatler,  had  that  morning 
been  distributed  among  them.  The  man  of  fashion  had  found 
one  on  his  table  at  White's  coffee-house  when  he  sauntered 
in  late  in  the  afternoon  for  his  cup  of  chocolate,  and  had  noted 
with  languid  approbation  that  the  paper  promised  "  accounts 
of  Gallantry  and  Pleasure."  At  Will's,  the  wits  were  making 
merry  over  the  new  paper.  They  commended  highly  the 
editor's  choice  of  a  pseudonym,  for  he  appeared  before  his 
readers  as  Isaac  Bickerstaff.  The  name  was  familiar  to  the 
whole  town,  since,  about  a  year  before,  Jonathan  Swift  had  used 
it  in  an  attack  on  the  almanack-makers  who  pretended  to 
predict  the  events  of  the  coming  year.  He  had  written  a 
pamphlet  in  which  he  had  gravely  foretold  the  death  of  the 
most  noted  among  them.  Partridge  by  name,  at  11  p.m.  on 
March  29  ;  and  when  that  date  had  passed  he  had  insisted,  in 
spite  of  angry  protests  from  Partridge,  that  the  man  really 
was  dead — could  not,  in  fact,  by  the  laws  of  logic  and  reason, 
be  alive.  All  the  wits  of  the  day  had  joined  in  keeping  up  the 
joke,  and  the  town  was  kept  in  uproarious  laughter  for  months. 
It  had  scarcely  died  away  when  The  Tatler  appeared  with  the 
name  of  the  then  famous  astrologer  on  its  title-page. 

At  the  Grecian  coffee-house  lawyers  and  Templars  wondered 
how  far  the  promised  articles  on  learning  and  Uterature  would 
deserve  serious  attention.  At  Child's  such  of  the  clergy 
as  were    not  so  entirely   given    over  to  politics  as  to  have 

267 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

forgotten  their  proper  duties,  welcomed  the  announcement  that 
the  new  paper  would  be  on  the  side  of  moraUty.    At  Jonathan's 
and  the  less  important  coffee-houses  of  the  capital,  merchants ! 
and  citizens  speculated  as  to  the  probable  reliability  of  the| 
domestic   and  foreign  news.    The   announcement  that   the' 
paper    was    designed    to  supply  reading  for  the  '  fair  sex  I 
caused  much  amusement,  and  men  went  home  to  joke  wittj 
their  wives  and  daughters  about  the  new  means  of  entertain- 
ment offered  to  them.     But  to  the  thoughtful  among  al 
classes  there  was  in  the  editor's  address  one  sentence  of  specia. 
interest.     "  The  general  purpose  of  this  Paper,"  said  Isaac j 
Bickerstaff,  "is  to  expose  the  false  arts  of  life,  to  pull  off  thej 
disguises  of  cunning,  vanity  and  affectation,  and  to  recom-j 
mend  a  general  simphcity  in  our  dress,  our  discourse,  and  our 
behaviour." 

It  was  for  the  means  of  doing  these  things  that  the  societ};! 
of  the  day  had  for  some  time  been  vaguely  seeking.  Thej 
profligacy  that  had  marked  the  Court  of  Charles  II  had,  undei; 
the  rule  of  Wilham  III  and  Queen  Anne,  passed  into  something 
more  resembling  decency  of  behaviour ;  but  though  men  hadj 
grown  somewhat  ashamed  of  the  excesses  their  fathers  had 
practised,  they  had  not  learned  to  adapt  their  speech  and{ 
manners  to  a  much  higher  standard.  Sobriety  and  decorum 
were  still  looked  upon  as  the  badge  of  a  despised  Puritanism.) 
and  fine  gentlemen  still  drank,  and  swore,  and  diced,  and  madd 
love  to  their  neighbours'  wives,  not  so  much  because  theyj 
enjoyed  doing  so  as  because  their  reputations  depended  oe| 
their  proficiency  in  these  arts.  Dress  was  still  extravagantj 
and  the  fashions  of  the  day  in  many  cases  ridiculous  and  un-i 
sightly.  Men  took  their  pleasures  coarsely,  and  women  ha^ 
little  to  occupy  them  except  frivolity.  | 

The  great  mass  of  the  middle  class — the  city  merchants  anq 
small  country  squires — though  they  had  been  but  slightljf 
affected  by  the  licentiousness  of  Court  life,  had  suffered  from 
the  lack  of  inspiring  examples  and  the  general  lowering  of  th« 
standard  of  manners  and  conduct.  It  was  this  class,  no^ 
grown  rich  and  important  and  ambitious,  that  felt  mo^ 
268 


I 


Sir  Richard  Steele 
W.  HoU 


Ip  THE   TATLER 

acutely  its  need  of  an  ideal  that  would  direct  and  enlighten 
its  blundering  efforts  toward  gentler  manners,  purer  pleasures, 
more  refined  social  intercourse,  a  more  humane  and  kindly 
spirit  in  the  business  of  life.  The  Tatler  promised  to  do  this  ; 
and  if,  to  us,  it  seems  absurd  that  a  penny  newspaper,  published 
three  times  a  week,  should  set  out  to  effect  what  was  Httle  less 
than  a  complete  revolution  in  manners  and  morals,  we  must 
remember  the  difference  between  those  times  and  our  own. 
The  Press  to-day  works  as  a  great  whole,  and  no  one  paper  can 
be  said  to  exert  a  very  marked  influence  ;  but,  taken  collec- 
tively, the  effect  of  our  periodical  literature  is  enormous.  In 
the  days  of  The  Tatler  only  a  few  comparatively  feeble  efforts 
had  been  made  to  use  the  great  and  powerful  instrument 
which  is  now  in  such  active  operation,  but  these  had  revealed 
the  fact  that  a  mighty  force  was  there  only  waiting  for  a  skilled 
hand  to  make  it  effective.  Add  to  this  a  public  ready  and  eager  to 
be  influenced,  and  the  highest  hopes  will  not  seem  unjustifiable. 
So  thought  Richard  Steele,  the  man  to  whom  The  Tatler 
owed  its  existence.  With  a  true  instinct  he  had  seized  the 
right  moment  and  the  right  means  for  the  work  he  wished 
to  do.  He  was  no  faultless  hero  or  calm  philosopher  who, 
looking  down  on  society  from  a  serene  height,  formulated  a 
plan  for  its  regeneration.  He  was  an  impulsive,  kind-hearted, 
reckless,  improvident,  lovable  Irishman,  whose  fine  impulses 
and  lofty  aspirations  were  continually  being  brought  to 
nought  by  a  pleasure-loving  disposition  and  a  lack  of  stern 
moral  fibre.  He  had  been  educated  at  the  Charterhouse 
and  at  Oxford,  had  left  the  University  with  discredit  and 
enlisted  as  a  trooper  in  the  Guards.  For  this  his  father,  a 
prosperous  Irish  attorney,  had  disinherited  him.  Steele 
remained  in  the  army  until  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  captain,  and 
made  himself  a  noted  figure  among  the  wild  gallants  of  the 
town.  He  Uved  extravagantly,  was  always  in  debt ;  he 
drank,  and  diced,  and  brawled  in  the  taverns  and  coffee- 
houses. But  he  never  lost  his  keen  appreciation  of  all  that 
was  lofty  and  beautiful  in  human  life,  and  he  loved  the  ideal 
which  he  always  saw  shining  in  the  distance  before  him, 

269 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

though  he  never  gathered  up  his  strength  in  a  real  attempt  to 
approach  it.     So,  in  the  midst  of  his  dissipations,  he  astonished 
the  town  by  producing  a  little  book  called  The  Christian  Hero, 
in  which  he  tried  to  show  that  through  the  teaching  of  Chris- 
tianity alone  could  man  become  a  true  hero  and  a  true  gentle-  ' 
man.     It  is  a  sincere  and  manly  little  book,  full  of  the  loftiest  l 
moral  and  reHgious  sentiments ;   yet  we  cannot  wonder  that  | 
it  brought  upon  Steele  much  ridicule — ^his  theory  and  his  prac-  ! 
tice  were  so  entirely  opposed  the  one  to  the  other.    Nothing  I 
daunted,  he  turned  to  another  department  of  Hterature,  and  ■ 
tried  to  reform  the  notoriously  licentious  drama  by  writing  i 
three  comedies  in  which  virtue  instead  of  vice  should  be  interest- 
ing and  triumphant.     He  was  not  without  power  as  a  dramatist,  ] 
but  he  allowed  his  moral  purpose  to  overweight  his  story,  and 
he  replaced  the  brilliant  wit  of  the  Restoration  comedy  by  i 
an  excessive  sentimentality  which  tended  to  become  insipid. 
So  he  gained  Httle  fame  from  his  work  for  the  theatre,  though  : 
he  gained  some  money,  and  that  to  impecunious,  thriftless  I 
Dick  Steele  was  a  matter  of  considerable  importance.     But  \ 
by  1708  all  this  money  had  gone,  as  well  as  the  money  which  ; 
two  successive  marriages  with  rich  heiresses  had  brought  him.  ; 
He  was  glad  indeed  to  accept  the  post  of  gazetteer,  or  editor  of  \ 
the  official  news  sheet  The  London  Gazette,  which  was  under  \ 
the  control  of  the  Government,  at  a  salary  of  £250  a  year.    It  | 
was  this  position  which  first  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  , 
The  Tatler,    He  had,  through  his  position  as  gazetteer,  almost 
a  monopoly  of  official  news,  domestic  and  foreign,  and  it  seemed  \ 
to  him  that  with  this  advantage  he  could  produce  a  news- 
paper that  would  sell  well,  and  so  bring  reUef  to  his  extremely  \ 
distressed  finances.     It  would  also,  he  hoped,  give  him  an 
opportunity  of  bringing  forward,  in  a  form  in  which  they 
would  reach  just  the  class  they  were   designed  to  benefit,  | 
those  views  on  moral  and  social  questions  that    were  so  ! 
dear  to  his  heart.    So  with  a  sanguine  spirit  he  started  his  i 
work.     From  the  first  he  addressed  himself  especially  to  the  , 
frequenters  of  the  coffee-houses,  for  his  knowledge  of  I^ondon 
life  taught  him  that  these  really  formed  the  centres  of  public  ; 
270  ■ 


THE   TATLEiR 

ion.  In  his  first  number  he  wrote  :  "  All  accounts  of 
illantry,  Pleasure,  and  Kntertainment,  shall  be  under  the 
article  of  White's  Chocolate-House  ;  Poetry  under  that  of 
Will's  Coffee-House ;  learning  under  the  title  of  Grecian ; 
Foreign  and  Domestic  News  you  will  have  from  Saint  James's 
Coffee-House ;  and  what  else  I  have  to  offer  on  any  other 
subject  shall  be  dated  from  my  own  apartment." 

For  a  short  time  the  original  plan  of  The  Taller  was  adhered 
to  with  a  fair  degree  of  consistency  ;  but  soon  the  natural 
bent  of  the  editor's  mind  began  to  influence  and  modify  it. 
I^ess  stress  was  laid  upon  news,  and  more  upon  the  comments 
and  reflections  which  it  suggested,  and  the  essays,  originally  only 
an  unimportant  element  in  the  whole,  became  the  leading 
feature.  Steele,  in  the  character  of  the  old  astrologer,  dis- 
coursed freely  to  his  readers  on  the  various  social  questions  of 
the  day.  He  attacked  the  fashionable  vices  of  gaming  and 
drunkenness,  the  practice  of  duelling,  and  the  unhealthy  state 
of  pubhc  opinion  which  caused  a  man  to  boast  of  his  im- 
morality and  blush  to  be  detected  in  an  act  of  piety  or  sober 
virtue.  He  depreciated  the  wit  which  the  age  prized  as  one 
of  the  first  quaUties  distinguishing  a  gentleman.  A  gentle- 
man, said  Steele,  is  one  who  is  thoughtfvd  of  the  feeUngs  of 
others  and  would  rather  miss  the  opportunity  for  a  briUiant 
repartee  than  humiliate  or  discomfit  a  fellow  man ;  who  can 
hold  steadfastly  to  his  opinions  without  offensively  thrusting 
them  in  the  faces  of  those  who  think  differently ;  who  is  dignified 
without  being  self-assertive,  and  genial  without  being  unduly 
famiHar.  Again  and  again,  in  successive  numbers  of  The 
Tatter  Steele  placed  this  ideal  before  his  readers.  He  touched, 
too,  with  a  lighter  hand,  affectations  of  dress  and  manner, 
ridiculing  "  the  order  of  the  insipids  "  as  he  called  the  super- 
exquisite  fine  gentlemen,  in  merciless  fashion.  The  fact  that 
few  of  his  readers  knew  who  the  editor  of  The  Tatter  was  gave 
him  confidence,  and,  as  he  said,  when  the  time  came  for  him  to 
wish  them  farewell,  "  Mr.  Bickerstaff  was  able  to  attack  pre- 
vailing and  fashionable  vices  with  a  freedom  of  spirit  that 
would  have  lost  both  its  beauty  and  efficacy  had  it  been 

271 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

pretended  to  by  Mr.  Steele."  The  character  of  Isaac  Bickerstaff 
was  developed  as  time  went  on.  He  was  represented  as  an 
aged,  soHtary  man,  who,  like  the  astrologers  of  an  earlier  time, 
lived  surrounded  by  the  mysterious  instruments  and  appliances 
necessary  to  his  art.  He  had  a  familiar  spirit,  named  Pacolet, 
who  was  able  to  read  men's  thoughts  and  reveal  to  his  master 
their  secrets.  This  plan  gave  to  Steele  a  wide  range  of  subjects, 
for  the  astrologer  through  his  own  powers  and  those  of  his 
servant  could  bring  all  mankind  under  his  observation ;  and 
in  order  to  include  womankind  also  in  the  survey,  Steele,  at 
an  early  stage  of  his  venture,  invented  a  lady  editor,  Jenny 
Distaff,  half-sister  to  the  astrologer.  With  her  help  The  Tatler 
was  made  to  extend  its  observations  to  things  specially  concern- 
ing women,  and  the  articles  which  from  time  to  time  dealt  with 
these  were  among  the  most  interesting  and  characteristic  to 
be  found  in  the  paper.  At  a  time  when  women  were  thought 
of  but  lightly,  when  the  false  gallantry  of  the  Restoration 
period  had  debased  them  in  the  public  eye,  when  they  were 
sneered  at  for  devoting*  themselves  to  the  frivolous  and  trifling 
occupations  which  were  all  that  the  custom  of  the  time 
allowed  them,  Steele's  chivalry  was  unfailing.  He  attempted 
neither  gallantry  nor  satire  ;  he  discussed  feminine  failings  and 
virtues  in  the  same  way  as  he  had  discussed  those  of  men,  as 
freely  but  more  gently ;  and  his  fine  compliment  to  I^ady 
Elizabeth  Hastings  is  an  indirect  compliment  to  all  her  sex — 
"  To  love  her  was  a  hberal  education." 

Not  many  numbers  of  The  Tatler  had  appeared  before 
Steele's  intimate  friends  began  to  suspect  who  Isaac  Bickerstaff 
really  was.  Number  5  revealed  him  to  Joseph  Addison.  The 
two  had  been  at  the  Charterhouse  School  and  at  Oxford 
together.  Steele,  in  his  impulsive  fashion,  had  early  formed 
an  enthusiastic,  worshipping  attachment  to  the  boy  who, 
though  exactly  his  own  age,  was  so  far  beyond  him  in  gravity, 
self-control  and  strength  of  purpose,  as  well  as  in  scholarship. 
The  two  boys  became  friends,  and  Steele  visited  Addison  in 
his  home  at  Milston  Rectory,  in  Wiltshire.  After  their  college 
days  Steele  and  Addison  for  some  time  saw  Httle  of  each  other. 
272 


THE   TATLER 

Addison  left  the  University  with  a  reputation  for  scholarship 
especially  for  excellence  in  lyatin  verse.  He  became  known 
to  Dry  den,  and  to  other  prominent  men  of  letters.  He  pub- 
lished various  translations  and  compUmentary  poems,  and 
received  in  1699,  when  he  was  twenty-seven  years  old,  a  pension 
from  the  Crown.  He  travelled  on  the  Continent,  and  shortly 
after  his  return  he  wrote,  at  the  request  of  the  Ministry,  the 
poem  that  estabHshed  his  fortune.  This  was  The  Campaign, 
which  celebrated  Marlborough's  victory  at  Blenheim.  It  was 
extraordinarily  popular,  and  Addison  received  from  the  govern- 
ment, as  a  reward,  the  post  of  Under-Secretary,  and  entered 
upon  a  poUtical  career. 

When  the  first  Tatter  appeared  Addison  was  in  Ireland, 
where  he  had  gone  as  Secretary  to  the  lyord  Lieutenant.  He 
was  not  in  the  secret  of  the  new  enterprise,  but,  as  has  been 
said,  he  speedily  recognized  Steele's  hand  in  it.  He  offered  to 
become  a  contributor  to  the  paper,  and  his  offer  was  very 
gladly  accepted.  The  first  article  he  sent  {Tatter,  No.  18)  dealt 
with  the  conclusion  of  peace  negotiations  with  France.  It  is 
in  Addison's  characteristic  tone  of  deUcate  and  playful  irony. 
-'  There  is  another  sort  of  gentleman,"  he  says,  aft^r  speaking 
of  the  soldiers  who  would  now  lose  their  employment,  "  whom 
I  am  much  more  concerned  for,  and  that  is  the  ingenious 
fraternity  of  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be  an  unworthy 
member ;  I  mean  the  news-writers  of  Great  Britain,  whether 
Post-men  or  Post-boys  or  by  what  other  name  or  title  soever 
dignified  or  distinguished.  The  case  of  these  gentlemen  is,  I 
think,  more  hard  than  that  of  the  soldiers  considering  that  they 
have  taken  more  towns,  and  fought  more  battles.  They  have 
been  upon  parties  and  skirmishes  when  our  armies  have  lain 
still,  and  given  the  general  assault  to  many  a  place  when  the 
besiegers  were  quiet  in  their  trenches.  They  have  made  us 
masters  of  several  strong  towns  many  weeks  before  our  generals 
could  do  it,  and  completed  victories  when  our  greatest  captains 
have  been  glad  to  come  off  with  a  drawn  battle." 

The  influence  of  the  new  contributor  to  the  paper  was  soon 
very  strongly  felt.     "  I  have  only  one  gentleman,"  Steele 

273 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

said,  in  his  preface  to  the  collected  edition  of  The  Taller,  "  who 
will  be  nameless,  to  thank  for  any  frequent  assistance  to  me, 
which  indeed  it  would  have  been  barbarous  in  him  to  have 
denied  to  one  with  whom  he  has  lived  in  intimacy  from  child- 
hood, considering  the  great  ease  with  which  he  is  able  to 
dispatch  the  most  entertaining  pieces  of  this  nature.  This 
good  office  he  performed  with  such  force  of  genius,  humour,  wit 
and  learning,  that  I  fared  like  a  distressed  prince  who  calls  in  a 
powerful  neighbour  to  his  aid  ;  I  was  undone  by  my  own 
auxihary  ;  when  I  had  once  called  him  in  I  could  not  subsist 
without  dependence  on  him."  But  in  saying  this  Steele 
undervalues  his  own  services  to  the  paper  in  order  to  exalt 
those  of  his  friend.  To  Steele  belongs  the  credit  of  originating 
the  ideas  which  Addison  developed  so  successfully.  He  had 
greater  initiative  and  greater  daring  than  his  friend,  and  was 
quicker  to  receive  impressions  from  the  world  about  him.  In 
literary  workmanship,  however,  he  could  not  approach 
Addison,  whose  perfection  of  style  becomes  more  marvellous 
the  more  closely  one  examines  it.  His  deHcate  playful  humour 
is  like  nothing  else  that  literature  can  show,  and  in  his  clear, 
beautifully  turned  sentences  there  is  such  a  suggestion  of 
refinement  and  finish  that  the  reader's  mind  is  uplifted  by  the 
sound  as  well  as  by  the  sense  of  what  he  writes.  One  cannot 
imagine  a  coarse  sentiment  expressed  in  Addisonian  English. 

As  the  Hterary  element  in  the  paper  became  more  and  more 
prominent  the  news  element  receded  into  the  background.  It  is 
probable  that  both  Addison  and  Steele  felt  themselves  hampered 
by  the  original  plan,  which  was  still  supposed  to  guide  them  in 
their  conduct  of  The  Taller,  and  more  especially  by  the  political 
principles  which  had  been  at  first  ardently  professed.  On 
January  2,  1711,  the  last  number  of  The  Taller  appeared.  The 
reason  given  for  its  discontinuance  was  that  since  the  pubHc 
had  discovered  Richard  Steele  in  Isaac  Bickerstaff  the  work- 
ing of  the  paper  had  become  ineffective. 

Two  months  passed  ;  and  then,  on  March  i,  171 1,  came  the 
first  number  of  a  new  paper.  The  Speclalor,  which  Addison  and 
Steele  combined  to  make  famous.  It  was  published  every  day, 
274 


THE   SPECTATOR 

?nd  each  number  dealt  in  the  form  of  an  essay  with  a  single 
subject.  Isaac  BickerstafE  had  disappeared,  and  **  the 
Spectator  "  was  installed  in  his  place.  In  the  first  number 
this  gentleman  introduces  himself.  He  is,  he  tells  his  readers, 
a  country  gentleman  of  good  though  not  high  birth,  and  of 
respectable  though  not  great  fortune.  From  his  childhood  he 
has  been  noted  for  a  singular  gravity  of  demeanour,  and 
a  taciturnity  which  has  increased  with  his  years.  He  is  a 
scholar,  and  a  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  He  has  lived  for  some  years  in  I^ondon  and  has 
frequented  all  places  of  public  resort,  though  he  has  taken  no 
part  in  what  he  has  seen  going  on.  "I  have  acted,"  he  says, 
"  in  all  parts  of  my  life  as  a  looker-on,  which  is  the  character 
I  intend  to  preserve  in  this  paper." 

This  first  number  was  written  by  Addison.  In  the  second 
Steele  described  the  other  members  of  a  club  of  which  "  the 
Spectator  "  was  a  member.  The  first  of  these  is  the  famous 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  a  country  gentleman,  whose  delightful 
simplicity  of  character  and  kindliness  of  heart  have  made 
him  one  of  the  best  known  and  best  loved  among  the  heroes 
of  fiction.  There  follow  a  gentleman  of  the  Inner  Temple 
whose  name  is  not  given  ;  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  *'  a  merchant 
of  great  eminence  in  the  City  of  IvOndon ;  "  Captain  Sentry,  "  a 
gentleman  of  great  courage,  good  understanding,  but  invincible 
modesty  ;  "  and  "  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,"  the  elderly  beau 
who  is  still  a  great  man  among  the  ladies,  and  can  tell  stories 
of  the  reigning  belles  of  two  generations.  These,  with  a 
clergyman  who  is  an  occasional  visitor,  make  up  the  club.  The 
papers  in  which  Mr.  Spectator  tells  of  the  doings  of  himself  and 
his  friends  are  among  the  best  of  the  whole  series.  At  other 
times  he  discourses  upon  every  variety  of  subject — social, 
literary,  rehgious,  philosophical.  In  the  tenth  number  he 
tells  what  are  his  general  aims  in  the  conduct  of  the  paper. 
"  My  pubHsher  tells  me  that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day,  so  that  if  I  allow  twenty  readers 
to  every  paper,  which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computation,  I 
may  reckon  about  three  score  thousand  disciples  in  I^ondon 

275 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  Westminster,  who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish 
themselves  from  the  thoughtless  herd  and  of  their  ignorant  and 
unattentive  brethren.  Since  I  have  raised  to  myself  so  great  an 
audience,  I  shall  spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction  agree- 
able and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reasons  I  shall 
endeavour  to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with 
morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways  find  their 
account  in  the  speculation  of  the  day.  It  was  said  of  Socrates 
that  he  brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven  to  inhabit 
among  men ;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of  me 
that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries, 
schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea- 
tables  and  in  coffee-houses."  He  recommends,  therefore,  that 
in  all  well-regulated  families  where  an  hour  is  set  apart  every 
morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter.  The  Spectator  shall  be 
punctually  served  up,  as  part  of  the  tea-equipage.  "  There 
are  none,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  to  whom  this  paper  will  be  more 
useful  than  to  the  female  world.  I  have  often  thought  there 
has  not  been  sufficient  pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  em- 
ployments and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements 
seem  contrived  for  them,  rather  as  they  are  women,  than  as 
they  are  reasonable  creatures,  and  are  more  adapted  to  the  sex 
than  to  the  species.  The  toilet  is  their  great  scene  of  business, 
and  the  right  adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  employment 
of  their  Hves.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is  reckoned  a  very 
good  morning's  work ;  and  if  they  make  an  excursion  to  a 
mercer's  or  a  toy-shop,  so  great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for 
anything  else  all  the  day  after.  Their  more  serious  occupations 
are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and  their  greatest  drudgery  the 
preparation  of  jelHes  and  sweetmeats.  This,  I  say,  is  the 
state  of  ordinary  women  ;  though  I  know  there  are  multitudes 
of  those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conversation,  that  move  in 
an  exalted  sphere  of  knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all  the 
beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress,  and  inspire  a 
kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well  as  love,  into  their  male  be- 
holders. I  hope  to  increase  the  number  of  these  by  pubHsh- 
ing  this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeavour  to  make 
276 


THE    SPECTATOR 

^'innocent,  if  not  an  improving  entertainment,  and  by  that 
means  at  least  divert  the  minds  of  my  female  readers  from 
greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  would  fain  give  some 
finishing  touches  to  those  which  are  already  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  of  human  nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out  all 
those  imperfections  that  are  the  blemishes,  as  well  as  those 
virtues  which  are  the  embellishments  of  the  sex." 

The  means  by  which  The  Spectator  attempted  to  accomplish 
the  objects  thus  set  forward  were  many  and  various.  Great 
use  was  made  of  "  the  Club,"  and  sometimes  paper  followed 
paper  in  which  one  or  other  of  its  members  gave  the  Spectator 
his  excuse  for  offering  disquisitions  on  miscellaneous  subjects. 
In  the  week  which  ended  July  7,  171 1,  for  example,  five  out  of 
six  of  the  papers  were  of  this  character.  On  Monday  morning 
Addison  told  his  readers  how  the  Spectator  visited  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  at  his  country  house,  and  described  the  members 
of  his  household.  On  Tuesday  Steele  took  up  the  story,  and 
told  of  Sir  Roger's  relations  with  his  servants — "  the  lower 
part  of  his  family."  On  Wednesday  Addison  introduced  his 
readers  to  Will  Wimble,  a  friend  of  Sir  Roger's,  the  younger 
son  of  an  ancient  family,  who  "  being  bred  to  no  business  and 
born  to  no  estate,"  *'  has  frittered  away  his  time  in  trivialities, 
and  put  the  real  talents  that  he  possesses  to  no  useful  purpose." 

On  Thursday  Steele  related  how  Sir  Roger  took  the  Spectator 
round  his  picture  gallery  and  showed  him  the  portraits  of  his 
ancestors,  and  incidentally  the  characteristics  of  a  gentleman 
were  discussed.  Addison,  it  may  be  remarked,  looked  upon 
Sir  Roger  as  his  own  creation,  and  was  very  jealous  of  his  being 
touched  by  any  other  hand.  It  is  not  often  that,  as  here,  Steele 
is  allowed  to  make  the  knight  the  subject  of  two  almost  succes- 
sive papers ;  and  after  this  he  says  no  more  about  Sir  Roger 
until  a  full  year  has  gone  by. 

On  Friday  Addison  resumed  his  account  of  Sir  Roger  at 
home,  and  told  of  a  conversation  between  the  knight  and  the 
Spectator  on  the  subject  of  apparitions.  It  was  the  practice 
of  the  editors  to  give  to  their  readers  on  Saturdays  a  *'  serious 
paper,"  that  they  might  be  put  into  a  proper  frame  of  mind 

277 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

for  the  observance  of  their  religious  duties  on  Sunday.  This 
particular  Saturday  brought  an  essay  On  Immortality,  of  which 
the  main  theme  was  "  the  progress  of  a  finite  spirit  to  perfec- 
tion." So,  for  one  day,  the  history  of  Sir  Roger  was  inter- 
rupted, only  to  begin  again  on  Monday  with  one  of  the  most 
delightful  of  all  the  Coverley  papers,  Sir  Roger  at  Church, 

Sometimes  a  course  of  papers  on  the  same  subject  was  con- 
tinued throughout  the  week.  During  the  week  that  ended 
May  12, 171 1,  for  example,  Addison  wrote  six  successive  papers 
on  True  and  False  Wit,  which  are  among  his  finest  critical 
efforts.  But  this  was  exceptional,  and  the  week  that  followed 
(May  14-19)  is  far  more  typical.  On  Monday  Steele  discoursed 
on  Fashions  in  Mourning,  showing  how  these  had  been  at  first 
natural  and  reasonable,  but  had  degenerated  into  unmeaning 
formalism.  Tuesday  brought  another  paper  by  Steele,  in 
which  he  took  up  the  subject  of  wit,  dealt  with  by  Addison  a 
few  days  before,  and  "  followed  it  to  the  playhouse,"  showing 
how  it  was  exhibited  in  the  comedies  of  the  day.  He  ridiculed 
especially  Ktherege's  The  Man  of  Mode,  which  was  very 
popular  at  the  time.  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  the  hero,  whom  the 
fashionable  world  had  agreed  to  regard  as  a  model  of  good 
breeding,  he  declared  to  be  "a  direct  knave  in  his  designs  and 
a  clown  in  his  language."  All  the  readers  of  The  Spectator 
were  laughing  that  morning  at  the  admired  Sir  Fopling,  and 
he  lost  for  ever  the  proud  eminence  to  which  he  had  attained. 

Wednesday  morning  brought  a  paper  written  by  John 
Hughes,  one  of  the  occasional  contributors  who  helped  Addison 
and  Steele  in  their  work.  Hughes  was  a  writer  of  some 
reputation,  and  a  friend  of  Pope's.  His  subject  was  the  educa- 
tion of  young  girls,  and  he  wrote  his  paper  in  the  form  of 
letters,  a  device  very  common  in  The  Spectator,  Many  letters 
were  received  from  correspondents,  and  where  these  were 
suitable  they  were  used.  But  letters  were  also  obtained  from 
other  sources.  The  very  natural  and  affecting  love-letter  from  a 
footman  that  forms  No.  71  of  The  Spectator  was  written  by  a 
servant  of  the  Hon.  Bd.  Wortley,  to  whom  it  was  given  in 
mistake  for  one  of  his  own.  When  the  footman  asked  for  its 
278 


Joseph  Addison 
Sir  Godfrey  Kneller 
Plioto.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


278 


THE    SPECTATOR 

I,  the  master  answered,  "  No,  James,  you  shall  be  a  great 
man  and  the  letter  must  appear  in  The  Spectator**  It  is  said, 
too,  that  Steele  in  one  paper  used  some  of  his  own  love-letters. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  letters  were  pure  fabrications,  written 
in  the  same  way  as  any  other  part  of  the  paper.  Such  were — 
to  return  to  John  Hughes — ^the  two  letters  which  were  read  at 
many  breakfast  tables  on  Wednesday  morning,  May  i6,  171 1. 
The  first  was  signed  "  Celim^ne,"  and  professed  to  come  from 
a  lady  who  desired  the  Spectator's  advice  as  to  what  she  should 
do  with  a  country  girl  lately  come  to  town,  pretty,  but  awk- 
ward and  unformed.  "  Help  me,"  said  Celim^ne,  "  to  make 
her  comprehend  the  visible  graces  of  speech  and  the  dumb 
eloquence  of  motion."  The  other  letter  was  written  by  a 
man  and  dealt  with  the  same  subject  from  the  opposite  point 
of  view.  "  I  who  am  a'rough  man,  am  afraid  the  young  girl  is 
in  a  fair  way  to  be  spoilt ;  therefore,  Mr.  Spectator,  let  us  have 
your  opinion  of  this  fine  thing  called  fine  breeding  ;  for  I  am 
afraid  it  differs  too  much  from  the  plain  thing  called  good 
breeding."  "  The  Spectator  "  took  the  opportunity  these  letters 
gave  him  of  attacking  the  usual  system  of  female  education  as 
being  showy  and  worthless. 

On  Thursday  morning  appeared  a  letter  (whether  real  or 
fictitious  does  not  appear)  from  a  tradesman,  who  told  how  he 
went  to  a  dance  with  his  eldest  daughter  and  was  shocked 
at  the  immodest  and  familiar  manners  of  the  dancers.  He 
described  the  two  dances  Hunt  the  Squirrel  and  Moll  Pately, 
both  of  which  offended  his  sense  of  decorum.  The  Spectator 
sympathised  with  the  outraged  father,  and  pictured  how  his 
horror  would  have  been  increased  had  some  of  the  popular 
"  kissing  dances  "  been  included  in  the  programme. 

The  remaining  two  papers  of  the  week  were  contributed  by 
Addison.  On  Friday  he  gave  his  readers  an  essay  on  Friendship. 
He  quoted  from  various  writers  on  the  subject  and  commented 
on  these.  He  added  :  "  If  I  were  to  give  my  opinion  upon 
such  an  exhausted  subject,  I  should  join  to  these  other  qualifica- 
tions a  certain  equability  or  evenness  of  behaviour.  ...  It  is 
very  unlucky  for  a  man  to  be  entangled  in  friendship  with  one, 

279 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

who  by  these  changes  and  vicissitudes  of  humour  is  sometimes! 
amiable,  and  sometimes  odious  ;  and  as  most  men  are  at  some' 
times  in  an  admirable  frame  and  disposition  of  mind,  it  should  i 
be  one  of  the  greatest  tasks  of  wisdom  to  keep  ourselves  wellj 
when  we  are  so  and  never  to  go  out  of  that  which  is  the  agreeable  j 
part  of  our  character/'  This  is  very  characteristic  of  the 
sweet-tempered,  placid  Addison.  j 

Saturday  brought  a  paper  on  British  Commerce,  prefixed  by^ 
a  long  quotation  from  Virgil  and  a  longer  one  from  Dryden.  i 
"  There  is  no  place  in  the  town,"  says  Addison,  "  which  I  S0| 
much  love  to  frequent  as  the  Royal  Exchange.  It  gives  me  aj 
secret  satisfaction,  and  in  some  measure  gratifies  my  vanity,  j 
as  I  am  an  Englishman,  to  see  so  rich  an  assembly  of  country-^ 
men  and  foreigners  consulting  together  upon  the  private] 
business  of  mankind,  and  making  the  metropoUs  a  kind  o£^ 
emporium  for  the  whole  earth."  And  he  goes  on  to  discoursd 
upon  the  benefits  of  commerce  and  the  importance  of  mer-. 
chants  to  the  community,  finishing  with  a  finely  imaginative 
paragraph  in  which  he  pictures  one  of  our  old  kings  standingj 
in  person  where  he  is  represented  in  effigy,  and  looking  dowi^ 
upon  the  wealthy  concourse  of  people  with  which  that  place  i^ 
every  day  filled.  ^ 

The  most  famous  of  the  "  Saturday  papers  "  are  those  iii| 
which  Addison  criticises  Paradise  Lost.  These  were  begun  ini 
the  early  part  of  1712,  and  were  continued  during  eighteen; 
weeks.  They  are  very  valuable  critical  exercises,  although  in] 
them  Addison  regards  Milton's  great  work  from  a  point  o^ 
view  which  differs  considerably  from  that  taken  by  more 
modern  critics.  But  he  helped  his  age  to  appreciate,  in  somel 
measure,  a  style  of  literature  immeasurably  above  the  artificial 
and  over-elaborated  works  of  their  own  day,  and  in  so  doin^ 
he  rendered  it  a  great  service. 

Addison's  early  expressed  hope  that  his  paper  might  form  ans 
indispensable  part  of  the  breakfast  equipage  in  every  reading 
household,  came,  as  time  went  on,  very  near  being  realizedj 
and  some  of  the  letters  published  in  The  Spectator  illustrate 
this  very  amusingly.  "  Mr.  Spectator,"  writes  a  lady  who  callsj 
280 


THE    SPECTATOR 

lierself  "  Leonora,"  "  your  paper  is  part  of  my  tea-equipage, 
and  my  servant  knows  my  humour  so  well  that,  calling  for  my 
breakfast  this  morning  (it  being  past  my  usual  hour)  she 
answered  The  Spectator  was  not  yet  come  in,  but  the  tea-kettle 
boiled,  and  she  expected  it  every  moment." 

When,  in  August  17 12,  a  Government  tax  was  imposed  upon 
periodicals,  and  the  price  of  The  Spectator  was,  in  consequence, 
raised  from  a  penny  to  twopence,  it  might  reasonably  have 
been  feared  that  its  circulation  would  sufFer ;  but  the  effect 
was  only  shght  and  temporary.  Addison  wrote  a  paper  upon 
the  imposition  of  the  tax  in  his  usual  inimitable  style.  "  This 
is  the  day,"  he  said,  "  on  which  many  eminent  authors  will 
publish  their  last  words.  ...  A  facetious  friend  of  mine,  who 
loves  a  pun,  calls  this  present  mortality  among  authors  the  fall 
of  the  lea/:* 

It  was  in  the  nature  of  things,  however,  that  such  a  paper  as 
The  Spectator  could  not  go  on  indefinitely.  Its  charm  con- 
sisted in  its  freshness  and  variety,  in  the  lightness  of  touch 
which  permitted  it  to  deal  with  almost  every  department  of 
social  life.  But  as  the  enterprise  grew  somewhat  stale  to  its 
originators,  there  came  a  perceptible  falling  off  in  these 
qualities.  The  later  numbers  of  The  Spectator  are  more  serious 
in  tone  and  not  so  uniformly  excellent  in  style  as  the  earlier 
ones.  Both  editors  began  to  think  that  it  was  time  to  stop, 
and  with  its  555th  number,  on  December  6,  1712,  the  career 
of  The  Spectator  was  brought  to  an  end. 

The  subsequent  careers  of  Addison  and  Steele  may  be 
briefly  told.  A  new  paper,  The  Guardian,  succeeded  The 
spectator,  but  failed  to  keep  itself  free  from  poUtical  entangle- 
ments and  soon  came  to  an  end.  It  was  followed  by  a  violently 
partisan  paper  The  Englishman,  edited  by  Steele  alone,  but 
this,  too,  was  unsuccessful.  Addison  turned  from  periodical 
literature  to  the  theatre,  and  in  1713  produced  his  tragedy,  Cato, 
which  was  received  with  enthusiasm  by  the  critics  of  England 
and  of  France,  but  has  not  sustained  its  reputation.  In  17 16 
he  married  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Warwick,  and  hence- 
forward gave  most  of  his  attention  to  politics.    An  unfortunate 

T  281 


\. 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  i 

quarrel  took  place  between  him  and  his  old  friend  RichardJ 
Steele,  who  was  opposed  to  him  in  political  opinions.  Addisoi^ 
died  in  1719,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  1 

Steele,  by  his  espousal  of  the  Hanoverian  cause  won  thei 
favour  of  George  I,  was  given  various  small  offices,  entered] 
Parliament,  and  was  knighted.  He  wrote  one  more  comedy,' 
The  Conscious  Lovers,  and  various  political  pamphlets.  Hej 
died  in  1729.  \ 


282 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    RAPE   OF  THE   LOCK  :  THE 
ESSAY   ON    MAN 

IN  the  number  of  The  Spectator  which  appeared  on  the 
morning  of  December  20,  171 1,  there  appeared  a  review 
of  a  new  poem  called  an  Essay  upon  Criticism.  On  the 
whole  the  reviewer  spoke  very  highly  of  the  work,  though  he 
noted  as  blots  some  venomous  reference  to  contemporary 
v^'riters  which  it  contained.  The  author  of  the  poem  was  the 
sickly,  misshapen  boy,  whom  we  have  seen  gazing  with  fervent 
hero-worship  at  the  burly  figure  of  old  John  Dryden  seated 
ill  his  armchair  at  Will's  coffee-house.  The  boy  had  grown 
into  a  young  man  of  twenty-three,  but  he  was  still  sickly,  still 
undersized  and  crooked  of  figure,  still  filled  with  a  restless 
eager  ambition  to  be  great  in  the  world  of  letters  and  make  his 
name  famous.  His  home  was  still  at  Binfield  with  the  father 
md  mother,  now  growing  old,  who  adored  him  and  whom  he 
benderly  loved  ;  but  he  made  frequent  visits  to  I^ondon,  where 
)y  favour  of  the  old  dramatist,  Wycherley,  he  was  introduced 
nto  the  society  of  many  of  the  famous  wits  of  the  day.  But 
le  had  apparently  never  met  Addison  or  Steele,  and  the  f avour- 
ible  review  of  his  poem  was  prompted  by  no  personal  feeling. 
Pope,  always  eager  for  praise,  was  overjoyed  at  obtaining 
uch  recognition  from  what  was  then  regarded  as  the  highest 
critical  authority.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  Steele  thanking  him 
n  the  most  heartfelt  terms.  Steele  replied  that  Addison,  not 
le,  was  the  writer  of  the  article,  and  promised  to  introduce 
Pope  to  the  great  man  at  the  earUest  opportunity.  Accord- 
ngly,  Pope  betook  himself  one  evening  to  Button's  coffee- 
louse,  and  saw  there,  surrounded  by  a  little  group  of  admiring 

283 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

friends,  the  mild  and  kindly  literary  dictator,  who  ruled 
his  little  company  by  means  of  a  gentle  urbanity  which  was, 
however,  as  potent  as  the  more  robust  methods  of  Ben  Jonson 
and  Dry  den  had  ever  been.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  Pope 
would  feel  very  much  at  home  among  this  little  group  made  up 
of  the  staff  of  The  Spectator,  His  nature  was  not  a  sociable 
one  ;  he  was  capable  of  sincere  and  faithful  friendship,  but  his 
restless  egotism  and  uneasy  consciousness  of  his  own  physical 
defects  disqualified  him  for  general  society.  He  professed  a 
great  admiration  for  Addison,  and  wrote  a  prologue  to  the  great 
man's  Cato  when  it  was  produced  about  two  years  later.  He 
wrote,  also,  one  or  two  papers  for  The  Spectator  and  for  its 
successor,  The  Guardian,  but  his  irritable  vanity  took  offence 
at  the  scant  notice  which  The  Spectator  gave  to  some  Pastorah 
which  he  published,  and  there  ensued  between  him  and  the 
Addisonian  group  a  coolness,  though  no  actual  rupture  tooi 
place.  I 

By  this  time — ^for  the  relations  between  the  two  writers  dia 
not  reach  the  stage  to  which  we  have  brought  them  untL 
1714 — Pope  had  raised  himself  to  a  position  in  the  world  oi 
literature  only  second  to  that  of  Addison  himself.  Aftei 
many  experiments  he  had  discovered  just  the  class  of  subject 
and  style  of  treatment  suited  to  his  particular  genius ;  an<^ 
this  he  had  done  through  a  trifling  incident  in  which  hei 
originally,  had  no  concern.  A  quarrel,  that  threatened  t<, 
become  serious,  had  arisen  between  two  Roman  Catholiii 
families.  lyord  Petre  had,  in  a  youthful  frolic,  cut  a  lock  O; 
hair  from  the  head  of  Miss  Arabella  Fermor.  This  familiarity  i 
was  highly  resented  by  the  lady  and  her  family,  and  the  entir<j 
circle  to  which  the  parties  concerned  belonged  was  throwij 
into  a  lively  state  of  commotion.  Pope  was  not  personall;! 
familiar  with  either  of  the  families,  but  he  knew  some  of  theii 
friends,  and  one  of  these  suggested  to  him  that  a  reconciliatio]| 
might  be  brought  about  by  means  of  a  poem  in  which  th 
affair  should  be  treated  in  a  playful  manner,  and  so  placed  i: 
its  proper  light  as  a  mere  outcome  of  high  spirits  and  youthft 
audacity.  Pope  took  up  the  notion  at  once,  and  set  to  wori 
284 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 

I'he  style  was  suggested  by  a  recently  published  poem  of 
Boileau,  the  great  French  literary  critic,  whom  the  English 
poets  of  Queen  Anne's  day  regarded  as  their  one  authority. 
This  poem,  called  Le  Lutrin,  dealt  in  mock  heroic  style  with  a 
quarrel  between  the  canons  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle  as  to  where- 
abouts in  the  church  the  lectern  should  be  placed.  In  a  similar 
tnock-heroic  vein  Pope  wrote  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  ;  and  he 
produced  a  brilHant  specimen  of  society  verse,  whose  exquisite 
inish  and  clear-cut  perfection  of  form,  show,  in  the  happiest 
aianner,  Pope's  characteristic  excellence.  ^  It  did  not,  un- 
ortunately,  achieve  the  object  for  which  it  was  wiitten.  The 
ady  was  inclined  to  be  offended  at  the  freedom  with  which  her 
private  affairs  had  been  treated,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  praises 
£,vished  upon  her  beauty,  her  wit,  and  her  sway  over  the 
learts  of  men.     But  she  accepted  a  copy  of  the  verses,  and 

ive  permission  to  the  poet  to  publish  them  in  Lintot's  Mis- 
dlany  (1712).  This  brought  a  chorus  of  praise  from  all  the 
ritics,  and  Pope,  in  the  exhilaration  of  the  success  which  was 
0  him  the  best  thing  that  life  could  offer,  conceived  a  means 
jy  which  he  could,  as  he  beUeved,  add  to  the  value  of  his 
Doem.  The  inspiration,  in  this  case  also,  came  from  France, 
Dy  means  of  a  book,  Le  Comte  de  Gabalis,  which  Pope  had 
ately  read.  This  book  set  forward  what  was  known  as  the 
iosicrucian  theory,  which  supposed  an  invisible  army  of 
jnomes  and  elves  to  guide  and  superintend  the  actions  of 
nortals  on  the  earth.  This  invisible  machinery  Pope  designed 
o  introduce  into  his  poem.  He  imparted  his  plan  to  Addison 
vho  shook  his  head.  The  poem  as  it  stood,  he  said,  was  "  a 
elicious  Uttle  trifle  "  ;  best  leave  it  alone.  But  Pope  was 
namoured  of  his  idea,  and  could  not  give  it  up.     He  re- wrote 

he  Rape  of  the  Lock,  and  set  his  fairy  creation  at  work  ;  and 
he  result  was  a  brilUant  success.     Pope  for  ever  after  harboured 

grudge  against  Addison.  He  beheved  that  jealousy  had 
Tompted  the  advice  given  to  him ;  that  the  famous  writer 
oresaw  the  triumph  which  would  follow  the  adoption  of  the 
uggested  device,  and  feared  for  his  own  supremacy.  The 
uspicion  was  perfectly  groundless,  and  could  only  have  arisen 

285 


/ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

in  a  mind  which,  like  Pope's,  was  hopelessly  distorted  by 
inordinate  ambition.  But  to  him  it  was  as  a  patent  and  fully] 
proved  fact.  ^ 

(r.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  in  its  amended  form,  appeared  in  1714,] 
and  at  once  took  the  place,  which  it  has  held  ever  since,  as  first] 
in  the  class  to  which  it  belongs — the  class  of  light,  witty,! 
drawing-room  verse.  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock/*  says  Hazlitt,| 
"  is  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  filigree  work  ever  invented.  It  I 
is  made  of  gauze  and  silver  spangles.  The  most  ghtteringj 
appearance  is  given  to  everything,  to  paste,  pomatum,] 
billets-doux,  and  patches.  Airs,. languid  airs,  breathe  around  ;] 
the  atmosphere  is  perfumed /with ^ffectation.  A  toilet  isj 
described  with  the  solemnity  of  an  altar  raised  to  the  goddess  I 
of  vanity,  and  the  history  of  a  silver  bodkin  is  given  with  all' 
the  pomp  of  heraldry.  IJd  pains  are  spared,  no  profusion  of] 
ornament,  no  splendour  of  poetic  diction  to  set  off  the  meanest: 
things.  ...  It  is  the  tr:jpmph  of  insignificance,  the  apotheosis! 
of  foppery  and  folly.     It  is  the  perfection  of  the  mock-heroic"! 

Pope's  Hght  touch  did  not  fail  him  throughout,  and  The 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  written  when  he  was  only  twenty-six  years' 
old,  is  by  some  critics  considered  to  be  his  masterpiece.  ] 

Pope's  career  during  the  next  sixteen  years  may  be  very] 
briefly  sketched.  Nearly  ten  years  were  spent  in  the  transla-| 
tion  of  Homer's  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  which  proved  very  success- j 
ful,  and  brought  the  poet  the  independence  toward  whicl; 
from  the  beginning,  he  had  worked.  In  1728  came  Tht\ 
Dunciad,  a  coarse  and  venomous  but  supremely  clever  satire  1 
on  the  minor  poets  of  the  day,  especially  such  as  had  beei,' 
unlucky  enough  to  incur  Pope's  easily  aroused  enmity.  During  \ 
the  whole  of  this  period  his  quarrel  with  the  Addisonian  grouj  ] 
of  writers  had  become  more  and  more  pronounced,  and  he  hac 
formed  a  close  friendship  with  Swift,  who  belonged  to  th(| 
opposite  political  party.  In  1716  he  removed,  with  his  father 
and  mother,  to  Chiswick,  and  upon  the  death  of  his  father ; 
two  years  later,  he  bought  the  Twickenham  villa  which  wajj 
his  home  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  (We  take  up  tht  | 
story  in  1730.) 
286  I 


Alexander  Pope 

Photo.  Mansell  ft  Co. 


286 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 

Pope's  Twickenham  villa  stood  in  one  of  the  loveHest  of  the 
pleasant  districts  that  border  the  Thames.  It  had  a  garden  of 
about  five  acres,  which,  Horace  Walpole  tells  us,  Pope  had 
"  twisted  and  twirled  and  rhymed  and  harmonized,  till  it 
appeared  two  or  three  sweet  Httle  lawns,  opening  and  opening 
beyond  one  another,  and  the  whole  surrounded  with  im- 
penetrable woods."  Pope  dearly  loved  his  Httle  estate,  and 
found  infinite  amusement  in  "  twisting  and  twirling  "  it  into 
the  shape  that  pleased  his  fancy.  His  crowning  achievement 
was  his  famous  grotto,  an  underground  passage  which  led  from 
the  main  part  of  his  grounds  to  a  lawn  which  lay  on  the  other 
side  of  the  high  road,  and  sloped  down  to  the  river.  The 
grotto  was  arranged  in  the  most  ingenious  fashion,  with  mirrors 
placed  at  various  angles,  fragments  of  gUttering  spar,  and 
curiosities  which  friends  who  knew  his  hobby  sent  him  from 
various  parts  of  the  country.  The  villa  was  within  easy  reach 
of  the  great  world.  Hampton  Court,  Richmond  and  Kew, 
which  during  the  reigns  of  George  I  and  George  II  were  so  often 
occupied  by  the  Court,  were  all  in  its  neighbourhood  ;  and 
lyondon  itself  was  not  so  very  far  ofi*  and  could  be  reached  by 
way  of  the  river,  as  well  as  by  road.  At  home  Pope  had,  until 
1733 ,  the  society  of  the  mother  whom  he  tenderly  loved.  In  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  lines  he  ever  wrote  he  speaks  of  the  fihal 
offices  which  during  this  part  of  his  life,  so  often  engaged  him : 

Me,  let  the  tender  office  long  engage. 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age, 

With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath. 

Make  languor  smile,  and  smooth  the  bed  of  death, 

Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye. 

And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky  1 

He  had  also  many  visitors,  more,  indeed,  than  he  desired.  He 
was  by  this  time  a  famous  man,  and  an  object  of  interest  to  all 
lion-hunters : 

What  walks  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide  ? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  ghde. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge. 
They  stop  the  chariot  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath  day  to  me. 

287 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Pope  enjoyed  the  sense  of  importance 
which  this  notoriety  brought  him,  though  the  inroads  which 
his  visitors  made  upon  his  time  was  really  a  serious  matter. 
Pope  took  his  vocation  as  a  writer  very  seriously,  and  much  of 
his  success  was  due  to  that "  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains," 
which  has  been  said  to  be  the  one  essential  of  genius.  His 
weakness  of  body  made  him  incapable  of  sustained  effort,  and 
all  that  he  did  was  done  in  the  brief  snatches  of  time  during 
which  he  found  it  possible  to  combat  successfully  the  languor 
and  weariness  that  constantly  beset  him.  The  amount  of  work 
he  accomplished  is  astonishing  ;  and  the  vaUant  struggle  made 
by  his  brilUant  intellect  against  the  disabilities  imposed  by  his 
poor,  sickly  body  compels  our  admiration.  We  forgive  him 
for  its  sake,  the  peevish,  waspish  temper  which  made  him 
so  many  enemies  and  we  refrain  to  speak  harshly  even  of  the 
crooked,  underhand  ways  by  which  he,  like  many  other  weak 
and  timid  creatures,  sought  to  gain  an  advantage  over  those 
with  whom  nature  had  dealt  more  kindly. 

Throughout  his  life  it  was  Pope's  habit  to  attach  himself  to 
some  one  who  was  stronger  and  more  fitted  to  meet  the  buffets 
of  the  world  than  he  himself  was.  The  story  of  his  friendships 
is  almost  as  long  as  the  story  of  his  enmities.  In  this  there 
was  doubtless  something  of  genuine,  disinterested  hero-worship, 
mixed  with  a  desire  to  gain  shelter  behind  a  stronger  personaUty. 
The  most  enthusiastic  and  the  least  interested  of  these  attach- 
ments was  the  one  he  formed  during  the  period  of  his  life  at 
which  we  have  now  arrived.  Its  object  was  I^ord  Bolingbroke, 
the  brilHant  but  discredited  Tory  Minister  of  Queen  Anne. 
During  the  last  years  of  the  queen's  reign,  when  Swift  had  been 
on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy  with  the  great  men  of  the  State, 
he  had  introduced  Pope  to  Bolingbroke — then  Mr.  St.  John. 
Since  that  time  Bolingbroke  had  passed  nearly  ten  years  in 
exile,  but  had  returned  to  England  in  1724,  and  settled  at 
Dawley,  near  Uxbridge,  which  is  within  an  easy  drive  of 
Twickenham.  The  acquaintance  with  Pope  was  renewed,  and 
there  followed  a  friendship  to  which  the  poet  owed  the  inspira- 
tion for  ^  the  work  by  which  he  is  best  known — the  Essay 
288 


IP  ^^THE    ESSAY    ON    MAN 

on  Man.  Bolingbroke  visited  Twickenham,  and  sat  in  the 
famous  grotto  : 

There  St.  John  mingles  with  my  friendly  bowl 
The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul ; 

and  Pope  braved  the  dangers  of  the  road  between  his  beloved 
villa  and  Dawley  in  order  to  return  the  visit.  Bolingbroke  seems 
to  have  sincerely  loved  and  admired  the  irritable  and  difficult- 
tempered  poet,  "  I  have  known  him,"  he  said  years  afterward 
to  Spence,  when  Pope  lay  dying,  "  these  thirty  years,  and  value 

myself  more  for  that  man's  love  than "     He  could  say  no 

more  for  tears.  Pope  looked  on  Bolingbroke  with  almost  reve- 
rential admiration.  "  It  looks,"  he  said  to  a  friend,  *'  as  if  that 
great  man  had  been  placed  here  by  mistake.  .  .  .  When  the 
comet  appeared  a  month  or  two  ago  I  sometimes  fancied  it  might 
be  come  to  carry  him  home,  as  a  coach  comes  to  one's  door  for 
other  visitors."  But  no  such  brilHant  exit  from  the  scene  was 
prepared  for  the  fallen  minister,  and  for  ten  years  he  lived, 
almost  unnoticed,  at  Dawley.  Failing  active  occupation,  he 
turned  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  and  persuaded  himself 
that  he  had  become  a  master  in  that  art  when  he  had  read 
some  half-dozen  of  the  best-known  works  upon  the  subject. 
The  knowledge  he  had  thus  gained  he  proceeded  to  impart  to 
Pope,  urging  him  to  the  composition  of  a  great  philosophical 
work  in  verse.  As  early  as  1725,  if  we  may  trust  a  reference 
made  in  a  letter  to  Swift  of  that  date,  the  work  was  under 
consideration.  We  may  imagine  the  two  brilHant  friends  play- 
ing at  country  life,  among  haycocks  and  poultry,  and  grottos 
and  vines,  and  writing  between-whiles  their  great  philosophic 
masterpiece.  Bolingbroke  read,  expounded,  and  argued. 
Pope  with  the  marvellous  quickness  which  enabled  him  to 
seize  upon  an  idea  and  utilize  it  without  making  any  real 
study  of  the  facts  on  which  it  was  based,  selected  the 
material  needed  for  his  purpose,  and  proceeded  to  put  it 
into  verse.  He  scribbled  down  his  couplets  in  their  rough 
form  on  the  backs  of  envelopes,  or  on  any  odd  scraps 
of  paper  that  came  to  hand.  "  Paper-sparing  Pope,"  Swift 
calls  him, — 

289 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  \ 

Now  backs  of  letters,  though  design'd  j 

For  those  who  more  will  need  'em,  | 

Are  fill'd  with  hints  and  interlined 

Himself  can  scarcely  read  'em.  | 

Kach  atom  by  some  other  struck  \ 

All  turns  and  motions  tries  : 
Till  in  a  lump  together  stuck  | 

Behold  a  poem  rise  1 

But  there  was  much  to  be  done  to  the  "  lump  together  stuck  "  ■ 
before  it  was  given  to  the  world  as  a  finished  product.  No  \ 
writer  ever  laboured  at  the  polishing  of  his  verse  more  strenu-  i 
ously  than  did  Pope.  "  Pope,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  was  not  ^ 
content  to  satisfy  ;  he  desired  to  excel,  and  therefore  always  | 
endeavoured  to  do  his  best ;  he  did  not  court  the  candour,  i 
but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and  expecting  no  in- ! 
dulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  examined  i 
lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctihous  observation,  and 
retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diHgence,  till  he  had  I 
left  nothing  to  be  forgiven.  For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  ; 
very  long  in  his  hands,  while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  i 
them."  He  kept  the  Essay  on  Man,  as  it  seems,  for  eight 
years.  The  first  part  was  pubHshed  early  in  1733,  the  other  I 
three  during  1733  and  1734,  in  the  form  of  epistles  addressed  i 
to  lyord  Bolingbroke.  j 

Milton,  in  the  introductory  lines  of  Paradise  Lost  had  pro-  ' 
claimed  that  his  aim  was  to 

Assert  eternal  Providence 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Pope  borrows  this  phrase  : 

I^t  us,  (since  life  can  httle  more  supply 

Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die,) 

Expatiate  free  o'er  all  the  scene  of  Man, 

A  mighty  maze  I  but  not  without  a  plan  ;  .  .  . 

J^ye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  Folly  as  it  flies. 

And  catch  the  manners  Uving  as  they  rise ; 

Ivaugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can; 

And  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  Man.  ij 

Milton  attempted  to  attain  his  end  by  showing  that  man  had  ,1 
brought  his  doom  of  misery  and  death  upon  himself,  in  spite  of  \ 
the  efforts  of  a  loving  Father  to  preserve  him  from  it.  Pope  \ 
proposed  to  prove,  by  philosophic  arguments,  the  justice  of  j 
290  \ 


THE  ESiSAY  ON  MAN 
God's  dealings  with  his  people  in  the  ages  that  followed  the 
fall  of  man,  and  especially  to  reconcile  the  existence  of  evil  and 
misery  in  the  world  with  the  rule  of  an  all-powerful  and  all- 
loving  God.  But  in  this,  as  might  have  been  foreseen,  he 
failed.  Such  a  work  demanded  a  large  grasp,  a  deep  insight,  an 
all-embracing  sympathy,  none  of  which  quahties  Pope  possessed. 
Moreover,  he  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  learned  in  the  philosophy 
he  professed  to  expound.  "  Metaphysical  morality  was  to  him 
a  new  study,'*  says  Dr.  Johnson,  '*  he  was  proud  of  his  acquisi- 
tions, and,  supposing  himself  master  of  great  secrets,  was  in 
haste  to  teach  what  he  had  not  learned."  It  is  not  surprising, 
therefore,  to  find  that  the  poem  is  full  of  inconsistencies  and 
contradictions,  and  that  no  definite  theory  with  regard  to  the 
plan  on  which  the  universe  is  governed  can  be  gathered  from  it. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  these  things,  the  Essay  on  Man  is  a  notable 
work.  Nowhere  is  Pope's  special  gift  of  neat,  concise,  striking 
expression  shown  to  better  advantage  ;  in  no  other  work  has 
he  given  us  couplets  more  exquisitely  turned  or  more  brilliantly 
polished.  Some  of  these  have  passed  into  proverbs,  because 
men  have  recognized  in  them  a  feUcitous  expression  of  a 
common  truth.     Such,  for  example,  are  : 

Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast  t 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 

And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear.  Whatever  is,  is  right. 

Worth  makes  the  man.  and  want  of  it  the  fellow ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Never  elated,  while  one  man's  oppressed  ; 
Never  dejected  whilst  another's  blessed. 

In  some  of  the  illustrative  passages  the  beauty  of  the  thought 
is  equal  to  the  beauty  of  the  language.  That  which  describes 
the  poor  Indian's  conception  of  a  life  to  come  will  always  be 
remembered  if  only  for  the  appeal  to  common,  human  feeling 
so  finely  made  in  the  last  two  lines  : 

But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  liim  company. 

The  poem  quickly  became  popular,  but  it  involved  Pope  in 
difficulties  which  he  had  by   no   means  foreseen.     It  was 

291 


^^ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

translated  into  French  and  had  a  ready  sale  on  the  Continent. 
I^earned  divines  and  professors  of  philosophy  hastened  to  bring 
their  heavy  battery  of  learning  against  the  flimsy  structure 
which  Pope  had  built  upon  an  insecure  foundation.  They 
accused  him  of  heterodoxy  and  even  of  atheism,  and  poor  Pope 
was  dreadfully  alarmed.  His  religious  belief  was,  perhaps, 
vaguely  defined  and  loosely  held ;  but  he  had  refused  to  re- 
nounce the  faith  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  when  by 
doing  so  he  might  have  gained  worldly  advancement,  and  is 
therefore  entitled  to  be  credited  with  a  sincere  conviction  of  its 
truth.  Moreover,  he  had  set  out  to  champion  the  cause  of 
reHgion,  and  to  be  accused  of  attacking  it  was  specially 
humiliating.  Bolingbroke  had  returned  to  the  Continent,  and 
Pope  was  left  alone  to  weather  the  storm  which  burst  upon 
him.  lyuckily  a  champion  arose  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 
William  Warburton,  afterward  Bishop  of  Gloucester,  took 
up  his  cause,  and  wrote  a  book  to  prove  that  Pope  had  spoken 
"  truth  uniformly  throughout.''  Pope's  gratitude  was 
extreme,  and  he  formed  with  Warburton  one  of  those  close, 
admiring  friendships  which  have  before  been  noticed  as 
characteristic  of  his  temper. 

Ten  years  mote  of  life  remained  to  Pope,  and  during  that 
time  he  produced  some  of  his  finest  short  poems — ^the  Epistles 
and  the  Satires.  He  still  lived  at  Twickenham,  still  received 
his  friends  and  visited  at  the  houses  of  great  men.  But  it  was 
with  more  and  more  effort  that  his  "  crazy  carcase,"  as  one  of  his 
enemies  had,  in  his  early  years  called  his  frail  body,  could  be 
made  to  answer  the  demands  which  he  made  upon  it.  His 
health  gradually  failed,  and  at  last  asthma  and  dropsy  put 
an  end  to  his  life,  in  May  1744.  He  was  sincerely  mourned 
by  the  friends  he  had  loved,  Spence,  and  Warburton  and 
Bolingbroke,  and  the  other  members  of  his  intimate  circle. 
He  has  taken  his  place  as  one  of  our  great  KngHsh  poets  ;  and 
though  we  may  find  in  his  character  little  to  love  and  much 
to  blame,  yet  much  must  be  forgiven  to  a  man  who,  in  spite  of 
terrible  physical  drawbacks,  has  left  us  such  a  legacy  of  polished 
and  finely  wrought  verse. 
292 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
ROBINSON   CRUSOE 

DURING  the  year  1712  there  was  much  talk  in  the  coffee- 
houses and  clubs  of  London  concerning  the  adventures 
of  a  Scotch  sailor,  Alexander  Selkirk,  who  had  been 
put  ashore  by  his  captain  on  the  desert  island  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez, and  had  Hved  there  for  four  years  (1705-1709)  quite 
alone.  He  had  been  rescued  by  Captain  Rogers,  who  had 
brought  him  back  to  England  in  171 1.  Reports  of  Selkirk's 
adventures  at  once  began  to  circulate  in  London,  and  the 
story  was  fully  told  in  Captain  Rogers's  book  A  Cruising 
Voyage  round  the  World,  pubUshed  in  1712.  Richard  Steele, 
with  his  quick,  human  sympathy,  was  one  of  the  first  to  be 
attracted  by  the  account.  He  saw,  moreover,  the  chance 
of  a  telUng  article  in  The  Englishman,  which  he  was  then 
editing.  He  sought  out  Alexander  Selkirk  and  obtained  from 
his  mouth  an  account  of  his  experiences.  This  appeared  in 
the  number  of  The  Englishman  issued  December  3,  1712. 
The  Englishman,  we  know,  did  not  appear  upon  the  breakfast- 
table  of  every  middle-class  home  with  the  same  certainty  and 
regularity  that  The  Spectator  had  done.  Yet  it  reached  many 
of  them,  and  at  these,  we  may  be  sure,  the  conversation  turned 
mainly  upon  the  surprising  experiences  of  the  lonely  mariner 
whose  story  it  contained.  There  was  one  house,  situated  in 
the  pleasant  rural  village  of  Stoke  Newington — a  large,  hand- 
some dwelling-place,  with  stables,  coach-house  and  beautifully 
kept  gardens — where  we  may  feel  certain  the  paper  made  its 
appearance  ;  for  its  master  was  a  keen  poUtician  and  an  active 
journaHst  who  made  it  his  business  to  hear  all  that  was  being 
said  upon  the  topics  of  the  day.    We  can  picture  him  as  he 

293 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  j 

came  downstairs  on  that  cold  December   morning — a,  spare  \ 
elderly  man,  with  a  brown  complexion,  a  hooked  nose,  a  sharp  i 
chin,  grey  eyes  and  a  large  mole  near  his  mouth.     He  wore  the  ! 
luxuriant,  flowing  wig  with  which  the  portraits  of  Addison,  i 
Steele,  Swift  and  other  notabilities  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  i 
have  made  us  familiar.     He  was  neatly  and  carefully  dressed,  i 
and  his  clothes  were  a  trifle  gayer  in  colour  and  a  trifle  richer  in  ; 
material  than  might  have  been  expected  from  a  gentleman  of  \ 
the  middle  class,  who  was  approaching  the  end  of  his  fifty-  \ 
third  year.    His  movements  were  quick  and  energetic,  though  ' 
his  hands  were  somewhat  swollen  with  gout ;  his  keen,  restless 
glance  showed  an  eager  interest  in  all  the  circumstances  of  the  ; 
life  around  him.    At  the  breakfast  table  with  him  sat  his  wife 
and  his  *'  three  lovely  daughters,  who  were  admired  for  their  j 
beauty,  their  education  and  their  prudent  conduct "  ;    per- 
haps, also,  one  or  more  of  his  three  sons,  who  were,  however,  j 
at  this  time  out  in  the  world  making  careers  for  themselves.  ' 
There  was  much  lively  talk  and  laughter  over  the  breakfast  , 
table ;   but  the  master  of  the  house  managed,  with  it  all,  to  i 
find  out  something  of  the  contents  of  the  Httle  pile  of  papers 
that  lay  before  him.     He  saw  at  once  the  possibiHties  of  the 
story  of  Alexander  Selkirk,  and  when  he  rose  from  the  break-  j 
fast  table  we  may  imagine  that  he  secured  the  paper,  which  I 
had  probably  been  going  the  round  of  the  party,  carried  it 
away  with  him  to  the  room  upstairs  where  he  did  his  work,  ; 
and  put  it  carefully  away  for  future  use.     For  nearly  seven 
years  it  lay  there  undisturbed,  but  nevertheless  it  proved  to  be  | 
the  germ  of  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  world's  classics.     For  ' 
the  spare  elderly  man  was  Daniel  Defoe,  and  the  hint  which  he  ' 
gained  from  the  life  of  Alexander  Selkirk  he  developed  into 
Robinson  Crusoe.  ! 

In  1712,  however,  he  had  no  time  for  the  writing  of  fiction.  ! 
He  was  a  man  who  always  had  many  irons  in  the  fire,  and  the  \ 
story  of  his  long  and  strenuous  career  is  almost  bewildering  by  \ 
reason  of  the  manifold  activities,  extraordinary  vicissitudes  i 
and  swift  changes  of  front  that  it  records.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
butcher  of  Cripplegate,  and  was  designed  by  his  parents  for  the  i 

294  I 


Frontispiece  to  the  First  Edition  of  '*  Robinson  Crusoe 


294 


Ip  ROBINSON    CRUSOE 

Presbyterian  ministry.  But  he  disappointed  their  expecta 
tions,  and  became  a  hosier  in  Cornhill,  whose  business  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  spend  various  periods  abroad,  in 
Spain,  and  probably,  also  in  Germany,  Italy  and  France.  He 
took  a  share  in  Monmouth's  rebellion  in  1685,  and  joined  the 
army  of  William  III  in  1688.  He  became  an  enthusiastic 
politician,  and  a  prominent  figure  of  the  London  dissenting 
body.  In  1692  he  failed  in  business  for  £17,000,  and  four  years 
later  we  find  him  managing  a  tile  factory  near  Tilbury.  He 
began  his  literary  career  by  a  satire  in  verse,  written  in  1691, 
and  from  that  time  forward  he  produced  with  astounding 
rapidity  pamphlets,  verse,  political  tracts,  and  journalistic 
matter  of  every  description.  In  1703  he  was  arrested  for 
writing  a  tract  called  The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  was 
sentenced  to  stand  three  times  in  the  pillory,  and  to  be  im- 
prisoned in  Newgate  during  the  Queen's  pleasure.  He  was 
released  at  the  end  of  a  year  and  founded  a  newspaper  called 
The  Review,  which  dealt  mainly  with  political  topics.  This 
paper  he  carried  on  for  nine  years,  almost  single-handed.  He 
was  employed  by  the  Government  in  secret  service,  and  served 
in  this  way  five  different  administrations.  His  rides  over 
England  as  an  election  agent  for  Harley  in  1704  and  1705  are 
famous.  To  give  any  account  here  of  his  literary  activity 
would  be  impossible.  No  public  event  occurred  but  he  was 
ready  to  take  advantage  of  it  with  a  tract,  a  set  of  verses,  a 
realistic  narrative  or  a  moral  discourse.  The  amazing  fertility 
of  his  brain  is  demonstrated  more  and  more  fully  as  modern 
research  brings  to  light  fresh  examples  of  his  work. 

Defoe's  education  had  not  been  of  the  kind  which  alone  was 
valued  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  He  had  received  no 
classical  training,  and  had  never  been  a  student  of  either 
University.  He  was  educated  at  a  school  at  Stoke  Newington, 
kept  by  a  famous  dissenting  preacher,  Charles  Morton.  All 
the  rest  of  his  really  remarkable  store  of  knowledge  he  seems 
to  have  picked  up  by  his  own  efforts  in  after  life.  The  great 
writers  of  his  day  despised  him  as  a  low-born  ignorant  scribbler. 
"  An  illiterate  fellow  whose  name  I  forget,"  is  the  way  in  which 

295 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  is  referred  to  by  Swift.  Defoe  fiercely  resented  this  attitude 
of  his  contemporaries.  In  one  of  his  journaUstic  sketches  he 
attempts  to  vindicate  his  claim  to  the  title  of  scholar.  "  I 
remember,"  he  says/'  an  Author  in  the  World  some  years  ago, 
who  was  generally  upbraided  with  Ignorance,  and  called  an 
'  Illiterate  Fellow  '  by  some  of  the  Beau  Monde  of  the  last  age." 
Then  having  given  in  detail  an  account  of  some  of  the  attain- 
ments of  his  despised  Author,  he  sums  up :  "  This  put  me 
wondering,  ever  so  long  ago,  what  this  strange  Thing  called  a 
Man  of  I/earning  was,  and  what  is  it  that  constitutes  a  Scholar  ? 
For,  said  I,  here's  a  man  speaks  five  languages,  and  reads  the 
Sixth,  is  a  master  of  Astronomy,  Geography,  History,  and 
abundance  of  other  useful  knowledge  (which  I  do  not  mention, 
that  you  may  not  guess  at  the  Man,  who  is  too  Modest  to 
desire  it),  and  yet,  they  say,  this  Man  is  no  Scholar." 

At  the  time  when  we  have  imagined  him  reading  The 
Englishman  in  the  house  he  had  lately  bought  at  Stoke  Newing- 
ton,  he  had  just  returned  from  Scotland,  which  he  had  visited 
in  the  interests  of  the  poHtical  party  that  desired  to  secure  the 
Hanoverian  succession.  He  had  involved  himself  in  diffi- 
culties with  the  opposition  party,  and  was  in  danger,  as  he 
knew,  of  prosecution  for  treason.  With  this  hanging  over 
his  head  he  was  still  taking  an  active  interest  in  the  war  with 
France  and  writing  tracts  advocating  an  honourable  peace, 
was  planning  the  issue  of  a  new  trade  journal,  The  M creator, 
and  was  busily  employed  in  the  service  of  the  Government. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  Alexander  Selkirk  had  to  wait  for  a  more 
convenient  season. 

But  when  the  treason  charge  had  been  settled  by  a  few  days' 
imprisonment  in  1713  ;  when  the  Peace  of  Utrecht  had  been 
signed ;  when  the  troubles  of  1715  were  safely  over  and 
George  I  securely  seated  on  the  English  throne,  then  Defoe 
managed  to  find  some  spare  minutes  for  miscellaneous  writing. 
In  1718  accounts  of  a  band  of  famous  pirates  who  had  become 
a  terror  to  mariners  on  the  high  seas,  reached  England,  and 
revived  the  interest,  that  Englishmen  are  at  all  times  ready 
to  give  to  strange  adventures  in  far-away  regions  of  the  earth. 
296 


1 


ROBINSON    CRUSOE 

Defoe,  always  acutely  conscious  of  the  state  of  public  opinion, 
and  skilled  in  profiting  by  it,  bethought  himself  of  Alexander 
Selkirk.  He  sat  down  to  write  a  narrative  founded  on  the. 
experiences  of  the  Scotch  sailor,  in  the  methodical  businessUke 
manner  that  long  practice  in  writing  had  made  natural  to  him, 
and  with  no  higher  ambition  than  that  of  producing  a  workman- 
like, saleable  composition.  If  he  had  done  nothing  further 
than  this  his  name,  in  spite  of  the  mass  of  literature  which 
stands  to  his  credit,  would,  to-day,  have  been  almost  forgotten. 

But,  as  he  wrote,  a  power  which  had  lain  dormant  within 
him  during  all  his  busy  years,  was  aroused,  and  came  forward  to 
guide  his  fluent  pen.  The  subject  was  one  exactly  suited  to  his 
peculiar  abilities.  He  possessed,  to  a  wonderful  degree,  the 
art  of  investing  his  descriptions  with  an  air  of  reality  by  means 
of  circumstantial  details  appUed  with  apparent  artlessness. 
His  keen  practical  nature  deHghted  in  overcoming  just  such 
apparently  insuperable  difficulties  as  those  which  confronted 
the  hero  of  this  story.  His  journahstic  experience  taught  him 
how  to  place  his  points  telHngly,  so  that  the  interest  of  the 
reader  was  never  allowed  to  flag.  All  these  qualities,  how- 
ever, he  had  shown  in  previous,  and  was  to  show  in  subse- 
quent, writings.  Something  over  and  above  these  went  to  the 
making  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  give  any  account  of  a  story 
which  is  familiar  to  every  boy  and  girl.  A  few  of  the  ways  in 
which  Defoe  improved  upon  the  original  narrative  may,  how- 
ever, be  pointed  out.  He  cast  his  hero  upon  the  desert  island 
by  means  of  a  shipwreck,  thus  giving  himself  an  opportunity 
for  a  wonderful  piece  of  descriptive  writing,  and  reserved  the 
actual  incident  of  a  man  being  put  ashore  by  his  captain  for  a 
later  stage  of  his  story.  He  extended  the  period  of  exile  from 
four  to  twenty-eight  years.  He  expanded  the  hints  given  in 
the  narrative  of  Alexander  Selkirk  into  a  full  and  circum- 
stantial account  of  the  ingenious  methods  by  means  of  which 
Robinson  Crusoe  provided  for  all  his  daily  necessities.  He 
added  exciting  descriptions  of  attacks  by  savages  and 
cannibaUstic  feasts  to  give  variety  to  what  might  otherwise 

u  297 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

have  been  in  danger  of  proving  a  monotonous  narrative ; 
and  he  introduced  into  his  account  of  the  departure  from  the 
island  various  exciting  incidents  which  brought  the  narrative 
to  an  effective  close. 

Thus,  almost  as  it  were  by  accident,  the  great  English 
classic  came  into  being.  It  had  an  immediate  and  remarkable  | 
success.  Encouraged  by  this,  Defoe  wrote  in  four  months  i 
The  Further  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  But  the  inspira-  ^ 
lion  under  which  he  had  worked  had  deserted  him,  and  this  | 
second  part  is  comparatively  tame.  Nor  did  he,  in  the  various  j 
works  of  fiction  that  he  produced  during  the  remaining  eleven  j 
years  of  his  life,  ever  attain  to  the  height  he  had  reached  in  \ 
Robinson  Crusoe, 

A  book  which  Defoe  published  in  1720,  and  which  is  now  i 
scarcely  ever  read,  gives  a  curious  and  somewhat  interesting  ! 
explanation  of  his  great  work.  Robinson  Crusoe  is,  he  tells  us,  | 
an  allegory  of  his  own  life.  But  it  seems  probable  that  this  ; 
was  an  afterthought  suggested  by  his  ingenious  brain,  to 
forestall  any  charge  of  inconsistency  which  might  have  been 
brought  against  him  by  critics  who  read  a  proposition  which  j 
he  had  put  forward  with  regard  to  the  morahty  of  writing  a  j 
purely  fictitious  story.  "  This  supplying  a  story  by  invention,'*  ; 
he  had  said,  "  is  certainly  a  most  scandalous  crime,  and  yet  \ 
very  Httle  regarded  in  that  part.  It  is  a  sort  of  lying  that  '\ 
makes  a  great  hole  in  the  heart,  in  which  by  degrees  a  habit  of  ■ 
lying  enters  in.  Such  a  man  comes  quickly  up  to  a  total  \ 
disregarding  the  truth  of  what  he  says,  looking  upon  it  as  a  trifle,  j 
a  thing  of  no  import,  whether  any  story  he  tells  be  true  or  \ 
not."  These  are  strange  words  to  come  from  the  man  who  \ 
was  one  of  the  most  important  of  the  progenitors  of  the  modern  j 
novel,  and  Defoe,  as  we  have  said,  tried  to  cover  the  incon-  j 
sistency  by  representing  his  work  as  a  story  which  is  "  the  \ 
beautiful  representation  of  a  life  of  unexampled  misfortunes,  and  : 
of  a  variety  not  to  be  met  with  in  this  world."  In  its  variety  j 
Defoe's  life  might  certainly  be  compared  to  that  of  his  hero  : 


No  man  hath  tasted  differing  fortunes  more. 
For  thirteen  times  have  I  been  rich  and  poor. 
298 


ROBINSON    CRUSOE 

The  shipwreck  which  occurred  twenty-eight  years  before  the 
date  when  the  story  ends  may  possibly  be  taken  to  symboHze 
Defoe's  bankruptcy  which  took  place  twenty-eight  years 
before  Robinson  Crusoe  was  written.  But  it  is  useless  to 
attempt  to  pursue  the  allegory  further,  and  the  Serious  Reflec- 
tions are  only  valuable  as  giving  us  a  glimpse  into  the  workings 
of  a  mind  made  subtle  and  casuistical  by  long  practice  in  the 
less  worthy  arts  of  poHtical  controversy. 

Defoe  died  in  173 1,  and  was  buried  in  the  Dissenters'  bury- 
ing ground  of  Bunhill  fields.  In  his  own  day  he  was  generally 
regarded  as  a  dangerous  and  not  too  scrupulous  political  agent. 
A  succeeding  age  exalted  him  into  a  great  writer  and  a  martyr 
to  the  Nonconformist  cause.  To-day  we  are  content  to  think 
of  him  as  the  author  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 


299 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  JOURNAL  TO   STELLA  : 
GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS 

IN  the  opening  year  of  the  reign  of  William  III,  Sir  William  i 
Temple,  the  statesman  who  is  known  to  history  as  the 
author  of  the  Triple  Alliance,  retired  to  his  estate  of 
Moor  Park,  in  Surrey,  there  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
The  household  over  which  he  ruled  had  something  of  a  patri- 1 
archal  character.  There  was  I^ady  Temple,  lovable  and] 
charming  as  when,  thirty  years  before,  she  had  written  the] 
delightful  love-letters  that  are  read  with  such  interest  to-day. 
There  was  Lady  Giffard,  Temple's  sister  ;  and  there  was  Ladyj 
Giffard's  companion,  or  waiting-maid,  Mrs.  Johnson,  with  heti 
two  little  daughters.  There  was  Rebecca  Dingley,  a  girll 
whose  connexion  with  the  family  is  not  quite  clear.  There; 
was  a  raw  Irish  lad,  Jonathan  Swift,  a  distant  relation  of' 
Lady  Temple,  who  acted  as  Sir  William's  secretary  for^ 
'  twenty  pounds  a  year  and  his  board  ' ;  and  there  was 
Jonathan's  '  little  parson  cousin,'  Tom,  who  was  the  house- 1 
hold  chaplain.  ' 

The  life  of  a  dependent  in  a  great  household  is  never  without^ 
its  drawbacks,  and  in  the  seventeenth  century  those  draw-j 
backs  were  probably  even  more  serious  than  they  are  to-day.  \ 
Sir  William  was  kind  and  just,  always  courteous  and  dignified,  i 
but  never  familiar  to  the  subordinate  members  of  his  household,  j 
We  know  that  the  thought  of  his  displeasure  struck  terror  i 
into  the  heart  of  his  moody,  sensitive  secretary.  In  after  1 
days  he  recalled  how  he  "  used  to  be  in  pain  when  Sir  W.  ■ 
Temple  would  look  cold  and  out  of  humour  for  three  or  fourj 
days,  and  used  to  suspect  a  hundred  reasons."  The  uncouth - 
300  \ 

\ 


THE    JOURNAL    TO    STELLA 

manners  of  the  Irish  lad  and  the  haughty  irritable  temper  which 
was  not  entirely  hidden  even  under  the  wholesome  awe  that 
Sir  William's  attainments  and  reputation  imposed  upon  him, 
made  him  no  very  pleasant  companion.  The  members  of  the 
household  who  sat  with  him  at  the  second  table  thought  him 
awkward  and  unp leasing.  They  sneered  at  his  fierce  pride  and 
laughed  at  his  ungainly  figure  ;  but  they  took  care  that  he 
should  not  hear  them  sneer  or  laugh,  for  not  one  of  them 
could  stand  before  the  glance  of  his  eyes,  so  strangely  and 
vividly  blue,  as  they  looked  out  under  their  black  brows, 
darting  fire. 

There  was  one  person  in  the  household  who  neither  looked 
down  on  Swift  nor  feared  him.  This  was  little  Esther  Johnson, 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Lady  Giffard's  waiting-maid.  When 
Swift  came  to  Moor  Park  she  was  eight  years  old,  a  bright, 
merry  child  with  large  dark  eyes  and  a  lovely  face.  She  was 
the  darling  of  the  household,  and  for  her  the  social  distinctions 
that  vexed  the  others  did  not  exist.  I^ady  Temple  and  I^ady 
Gififard  petted  and  indulged  her,  and  even  dignified  Sir  William 
unbent  when  the  little  maid  tried  her  pretty  blandishments 
upon  him.  The  sei-vants  adored  and  spoilt  her,  her  mother 
and  sister  looked  on  with  pride  as  they  saw  the  whole  house  at 
her  feet.  But  Jonathan  Swift  speedily  became  her  chief  ally. 
He  taught  her  to  write,  and  as  she  grew  up  he  directed  her 
reading,  supplying  her  with  books  from  Sir  William's  fine 
library.  They  roamed  about  the  grounds,  which  were  the  glory 
of  Moor  Park  and  Sir  William's  great  pride  and  occupation. 
Both  of  them  admired  with  all  their  hearts  the  trim  walks,  the 
stiff,  quaintly  shaped  flower  beds,  the  canal  which  ran  across 
the  grounds,  straight  as  art  could  make  it.  I^ittle  Esther 
found  that  the  awkward  moody  lad  made  a  splendid  play- 
fellow, when  he  was  away  from  unsympathetic  eyes  and  ears. 
She  learnt  to  love  and  admire  him,  and  to  defer  unquestioningly 
to  his  opinions  on  all  subjects.  Her  affection  touched  his 
proud  and  lonely  heart,  and  her  girlish  deference  soothed  the 
irritation  which  the  circumstances  of  his  position  continually 
excited.     So  began  the  famous  friendship  that,  almost  as 

301 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

much  as  his  works,  has  caused  the  name  of  Swift  to  be  held 
in  remembrance. 

With  one  or  two  short  periods  of  absence,  during  the  longest 
of  which  he  was  ordained  deacon,  and  then  priest,  Swift 
remained  at  Moor  Park  until  the  death  of  Sir  William  Temple 
in  1699.  He  studied  in  the  famous  library,  reading  especially 
classical  and  historical  works.  Temple,  as  he  came  to  recognize 
the  exceptional  ability  of  his  secretary,  entrusted  him  with 
tasks  of  increasing  importance,  and  Swift  gained  much  by 
contact  with  the  trained  man  of  affairs,  who  had  known  what 
it  was  to  guide  the  destinies  of  a  Kingdom.  Temple's  style 
in  writing — that  *  gentlemanly  *  style  that  Charles  Lamb  so 
admired.  Swift  did  not  imitate.  He  wrote  many  verses,  none 
of  any  special  merit,  and  showed  in  them  the  qualities  which 
were  to  distinguish  his  later  work — a  marked  ability  to  say  the 
exact  thing  he  wanted  to  say  in  the  clearest,  most  unmistak- 
able language.  In  1697  he  wrote  The  Battle  of  the  Books,  in 
connexion  with  a  discussion  then  occupying  many  men  of 
learning  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  ancient  and  modern  authors. 

When  Temple  died  he  left  his  secretary  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  the  right  to  publish  the  works  he  left  in  manuscript,  the 
profits  of  which  might  perhaps  amount  to  another  two  hundred. 
He  had  also  obtained  for  Swift  a  promise  of  advancement  in 
the  Church  from  William  III.  Thus  far  had  Swift  advanced 
by  the  time  he  had  reached  his  thirty-third  year. 

Esther  Johnson  was  now  "  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  grace- 
ful, and  agreeable  young  women  in  lyondon.  Her  hair  was 
blacker  than  a  raven,  and  every  feature  of  her  face  in  perfec- 
tion." The  affectionate  intimacy  between  the  two  had 
grown  closer  with  the  years.  Swift  had  carefully  trained  his 
pupil  to  regard  love,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  as  an 
unreasonable  and  uncertain  passion,  far  below  friendship  in  its 
highest  form,  which  was  the  relationship  that  he  wished  to 
exist  between  them. 

William  Ill's  promise  to  Temple  was  not  fulfilled,  and 
Swift  was  obHged  to  seek  diUgently  for  some  post  by  means  of 
which  he  might  earn  his  bread.  He  obtained  at  last  in  1701 
302 


THE   JOURNAL    TO    STELLA 

the  small  living  of  lyaracor,  a  village  about  twenty  miles  from 
Dublin.  Here,  a  few  months  afterward,  came  Rebecca 
Dingley  and  Esther  Johnson.  Sir  William  had  left  Esther  a 
small  property,  and  Swift  persuaded  her  that  her  modest 
income  would  go  further  in  Ireland  than  in  England. 

During  the  next  ten  years  Swift  paid  several  visits  to 
Ivondon,  and  became  known  to  some  of  the  great  men  of  the 
day,  but  his  headquarters  were  at  I^aracor.  In  1710,  however, 
the  Tories  came  into  power.  They  were  anxious  to  enlist  upon 
their  side  a  writer  of  conspicuous  ability  whose  services  would 
balance  those  that  Addison  rendered  to  the  Whigs,  and  they 
tried  very  hard  to  bring  Swift  (who  was  known  as  the 
author  of  many  political  pamphlets  and  several  longer 
works,  including  the  famous  Tale  of  a  Tub)  over  to  their  side. 
The  efforts  they  made  were,  in  the  end,  successful.  Swift  was 
disgusted  with  his  treatment  by  the  Whigs,  with  whom  he 
disagreed  on  many  points.  He  left  I^aracor  in  charge  of  a 
curate,  settled  himself  in  I^ondon,  and  entered  on  a  political 
career.  Swift  was  now  forty-two  years  old.  The  awkward 
Irish  lad  had  grown  tall  and  stately,  the  moody  countenance 
had  taken  on  an  imperious  expression,  the  azure  blue  eyes 
could  still  beam  softly  or  glower  terribly,  at  the  will  of  their 
owner.  He  had  a  charm  of  manner  which,  when  he  chose  to 
exert  it,  made  him  a  delightful  companion,  and  gained  for  him 
the  sincere  friendship  of  men  and  women,  gentle  and  simple 
alike.  His  strange  story  is  full  of  examples  of  the  remarkable 
and  sometimes  tragical  results  which  followed  from  the 
fascination  he  exercised  on  those  around  him.  But  in  general 
his  manner  was  brusque  and  overbearing,  often  even  positively 
rude.  The  contempt  and  distaste  with  which  he  regarded  man- 
kind, considered  as  a  mass,  are  plainly  visible  in  his  behaviour, 
and  though  he  was  capable  of  the  warmest  attachment 
to  individuals,  that  did  not  make  him  despise  the  less  'the 
animal  called  man.* 

But  at  this  period  when  life  was  so  full  of  interest  and  activity 
the  dark  unhappy  thoughts  which  were  wont  to  torment  him 
left  him  for  a  time  at  peace.    His  nature  required  that  the 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

great  powers  he  possessed  should  be  kept  in  full  and  active 
employment ;  otherwise  his  mental  state  became  morbid  and 
unhealthy.  Political  activity  he  specially  loved.  He  delighted 
in  feeUng  that  he  had  penetrated  to  the  very  centre  of  the 
nation's  business,  and  exercised  upon  it  a  guiding  and  con- 
trolling power ;  and  he  was  not  above  the  more  vulgar  satis- 
faction which  comes  from  flaunting  one's  own  importance 
before  the  eyes  of  one's  fellows.  Both  these  feelings  were 
soon  to  be  amply  gratified. 

His  breach  with  the  Whigs  became  final,  and  overtures  from 
the  Tory  leaders  followed.  *'  To-day,"  he  wrote  to  Esther 
Johnson,  on  October  4,  1710,  "  I  was  brought  privately  to 
Mr.  Harley,  who  received  me  with  the  greatest  respect  and 
kindness  imaginable ;  he  appointed  me  an  hour  on  Saturday 
at  four,  afternoon,  when  I  will  open  my  business  to  him." 
On  Saturday  "  he  spoke  so  many  things  of  personal  kindness 
and  esteem  for  me,  that  I  am  inclined  half  to  believe  what  some 
friends  have  told  me,  that  he  would  do  everything  to  bring  me 
over."  By  October  16  Swift  had  *  gone  over.'  *'  I  suppose," 
he  wrote,  "  I  have  said  enough  in  this  and  a  former  letter  how 
I  stand  with  the  new  people  ;  ten  times  better  than  ever  I  did 
with  the  old  ;  forty  times  more  caressed.  I  am  to  dine  to- 
morrow at  Mr.  Harley's  ;  and  if  he  continues  as  he  has  begun, 
no  man  has  ever  been  better  treated  by  another."  Swift 
responded  to  these  overtures  by  throwing  all  his  energies  into 
his  efforts  to  serve  the  Government.  He  wrote  pamphlets,  and 
he  used  all  the  influence  which  his  powerful  personality  and  his 
growing  reputation  gave  him,  in  the  interests  of  his  new 
friends.  In  February  171 1  there  came  a  check.  Harley 
offered  him  a  £^0  note,  which  was  refused  with  great  indigna- 
tion. Swift  disdained  to  be  treated  as  a  hireling — as  Defoe, 
for  instance,  who  was  at  this  time  in  Harley's  pay,  was  treated. 
Harley  was  obliged  to  sue  humbly  for  pardon,  but  for  ten  days 
Swift  refused  to  be  pacified.  "  If  we  let  these  great  ministers 
pretend  too  much,"  he  wrote  to  Esther  Johnson,  *'  there  will 
be  no  governing  them."  At  last  he  consented  to  a  reconcilia- 
tion, and  Harley,  in  return,  admitted  him  to  the  '  Saturday 

304 


THE    JOURNAL    TO    STELLA 

dinners  '  at  which  only  those  belonging  to  the  inner  circle  of 
the  Government  were  to  be  seen.  Swift  was  greatly  elated, 
but  behaved  with  his  usual  arrogance.  "  lyord  Rivers  was 
got  there  before  me,"  he  told  Stella,  "  and  I  chid  him  for  pre- 
suming to  come  on  a  day  when  only  I^ord  Keeper,  the  Secre- 
tary, and  I  were  to  be  there  ;  but  he  regarded  me  not ;  so  we 
all  dined  together.  .  .  .  They  call  me  nothing  but  Jonathan  ; 
and  I  said,  I  believed  they  would  leave  me  Jonathan  as  they 
found  me,  and  that  I  never  knew  a  ministry  do  anything  for 
those  whom  they  make  companions  of  their  pleasures ;  and 
I  believe  you  will  find  it  so  ;  but  I  care  not." 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  Swift  did  care,  and  that  he  was 
even  then  beginning  to  chafe  at  his  reward  being  so  long  delayed. 
He  would  not  accept  a  fifty-pound  note,  but  he  would  willingly 
have  accepted  a  bishopric  or  other  high  office  in  the  Church. 
But  as  vacancies  occurred  they  were  filled  by  lesser  men,  and 
Swift  was  passed  over.  His  friends  flattered  him  by  saying  he 
could  not  be  spared  from  I^ondon,  but  they  knew  the  real 
reason  was  the  Queen's  doubts  of  his  orthodoxy  in  religion. 

The  most  famous  political  tract  written  by  Swift  at  this 
time  was  The  Conduct  of  the  Allies,  which  is  said  to  have  been 
instrumental  in  bringing  about  the  Peace  of  Utrecht.  It 
raised  Swift  to  a  position  of  the  highest  importance.  Dukes 
sued  for  his  friendship,  and  a  crowd  of  applicants  besieged  him 
with  entreaties  that  he  would  use  his  influence  to  obtain  for 
them  places  and  pensions.  All  this  pleased  Swift  mightily,  and 
he  lorded  it  over  less  favoured  men  in  undisguised  elation. 
"  When  I  came  to  the  antechamber  to  wait  before  prayers," 
wrote  Bishop  Kennet,  in  1713,  "  Dr.  Swift  was  the  principal 
man  of  talk  and  business,  and  acted  as  minister  of  requests. 
He  was  soliciting  the  Earl  of  Arran  to  speak  to  his  brother,  the 
Duke  of  Ormond,  to  get  a  chaplain's  place  established  in  the 
garrison  of  Hull,  for  Mr.  Fiddes,  a  clergyman  of  that  neighbour- 
hood, who  had  lateley  been  in  jail,  and  published  sermons  to 
pay  fees.  He  was  promising  Mr.  Thorold  to  undertake  with 
my  lyord  Treasurer  that  according  to  his  petition  he  should 
obtain  a  salary  of  £200  per  annum,  as  Minister  of  the  English 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Church  at  Rotterdam.  He  stopped  F.  Gwynne,  Esq.,  going 
in  with  the  red  bag  to  the  queen,  and  told  him  aloud  he  had 
something  to  say  to  him  from  my  lyord  Treasurer.  He 
talked  with  the  son  of  Dr.  Davenant,  to  be  sent  abroad,  and 
took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  wrote  down  several  things  as 
memoranda,  to  do  for  him.  .  .  .  Then  he  instructed  a  young 
nobleman  that  the  best  poet  in  England  was  Mr.  Pope  (a 
Papist)  who  had  begun  a  translation  of  Homer  into  English, 
for  which,  he  said,  he  must  have  them  all  subscribe.  "  For," 
says  he,  "  the  author  shall  not  begin  to  print  till  I  have  a 
thousand  guineas  for  him." 

Such  was  Swift  in  his  full-blown  glory.  But  there  was 
another  side  to  his  life  even  during  this  period  of  triumph.  He 
went  home  from  brilliant  assemblies  where  he  had  scolded 
Duchesses  and  instructed  the  finest  gallants  of  the  day  how 
they  should  behave ;  from  jaunts  to  Windsor  with  Cabinet 
Ministers  as  his  companions  ;  from  dinners  with  the  '  Brother- 
hood '  Club,  where  the  greatest  men  of  the  day  met  for  talk 
and  good  fellowship — ^to  his  modest  lodging  in  St.  James's 
Street.  There,  after  picking  off  the  coals  with  which  his  Irish 
servant,  Patrick,  had  unnecessarily  piled  the  fire — for  the 
parsimonious  habits  of  his  earlier  days  still  clung  to  him,  and, 
indeed,  money  was,  even  now,  not  too  plentiful — he  got  into  bed ; 
and  sitting  up,  with  the  fur-trimmed  nightcap  presented  to  him 
by  Rebecca  Dingley  upon  his  head,  he  wrote  the  dehghtful 
journal-letters  to  Esther  Johnson,  or  Stella,  as  he  called  her, 
which  tell  us  most  of  what  we  know  of  his  life  at  this  period. 
He  tells  how  Patrick  has  been  misbehaving,  and  how  the  bill 
for  coals  and  candles  sometimes  comes  to  three  shillings  a  week  ; 
how  that  morning  he  had  had  an  attack  of  the  giddiness  and 
sickness  which  he  dreaded  so  much,  and  how  a  visitor  had 
come  and  sat  with  him  two  hours  and  drunk  a  pint  of  ale  that 
cost  him  fivepence  ;  how  there  was  a  coldness  between  him  and 
Mr.  Addison  for  political  reasons,  and  how  he  had  dined  with 
Mr.  Secretary  St.  John,  on  condition  he  might  choose  his 
company.  He  teases  Stella  about  her  bad  spelling,  her  losses 
at  cards,  the  fine  company  she  keeps.  He  inquires  tenderly 
306 


Jonathan  Swift 

Charles  Jervas 

Pboto.  Emeiy  Walker  Lt4. 


306 


THE   JOURNAL    TO    STELLA 

about  her  ailments  and  bids  her  save  her  '  precious  eyes/ 
which  are  inclined  to  weakness,  by  letting  Dingley  read  the 
letter  to  her  and  write  the  answer.  He  uses  the  endearing 
"  little  language  "  which  was  probably  a  survival  from  the 
childish  days  at  Moor  Park.  Stella  is  Ppt — which  means 
Poppet ;  Swift  himself  is  Pdfr — perhaps  poor  dear  foolish 
rogue  ;  M  D  is  "  my  dear,"  and  sometimes  stands  for  Stella, 
sometimes  for  Stella  and  Dingley  both.  "  I  assure  oo,"  he 
writes,  *'  it  im  vely  late  now  ;  but  zis  goes  to-morrow  ;  and  I 
must  have  time  to  converse  with  my  own  deerichar  M  D.  Nite 
de  deer  Sollahs,  Rove  Pdfr."  His  political  friends  would 
probably  have  had  some  difficulty  in  identifying  him  as  the 
author  of  letters  such  as  these. 

But  there  was  one  subject  on  which  Swift  did  not  write  to  Stella 
with  perfect  openness.  He  did  not  tell  her  how  large  a  part  a 
certain  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh  and  her  two  daughters  were  beginning 
to  take  in  his  daily  Ufe.  He  mentions  the  occasions  when  he 
dines  there,  but  he  does  not  say  how  many  hours  he  idled  away 
in  the  comfortable  homely  parlour  of  '  Neighbour  Van,'  and 
how  he  had  taken  up  once  more  his  old  office  of  tutor — this 
time  to  another  Esther,  Esther  Vanhomrigh,  to  whom  he  gave 
the  name  of  Vanessa.  Nor  does  he  tell  what  great  attraction 
the  young  girl  is  beginning  to  have  for  him,  and  how  she  hangs 
upon  his  words  in  just  the  same  way  that  the  other  Esther  did 
in  the  old  days  at  Moor  Park.  He  persuades  himself  that  there 
is  no  need  to  tell  all  this,  that  a  man  may  surely  have  two  friends, 
though  he  may  only  have  one  wife  ;  that  Esther  is  a  dear  child, 
but  Stella,  his  old  friend,  is  dearer  still,  and  nothing  can  shake 
his  allegiance  to  her.  All  this  is  very  likely  true ;  yet  he 
knows  in  his  heart  that  his  action  is  not  in  accordance  with  the 
proud  ideal  of  sincerity  and  uprightness  which  he  has  always 
held,  and  which  he  has  taught  both  his  pupils  to  hold  also. 

In  June  1713  Swift  at  last  obtained  promotion,  but  it  was 
not  the  promotion  he  had  hoped  for.  He  was  appointed  to  the 
deanery  of  St.  Patrick's,  Dublin,  and  after  the  defeat  of  the 
Tory  party  in  1714,  he  took  up  his  residence  there.  "  You 
are  to  understand,"  he  wrote  to  Bohngbroke,  "  that  I  live  in 

307 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  corner  of  a  vast,  unfurnished  house  ;  my  family  consists  of 
a  steward,  a  groom,  a  helper,  in  the  stable,  a  footman,  and  an 
old  maid,  who  are  all  at  board  wages,  and  when  I  do  not  dine 
abroad  or  make  an  entertainment  (which  last  is  very  rare),  I 
eat  a  mutton  pie  and  drink  half  a  pint  of  wine  ;  my  amuse- 
ments are  defending  my  small  dominions  against  the  arch- 
bishop, and  endeavouring  to  reduce  my  rebellious  choir." 
This  change  from  his  busy  triumphant  life  in  I^ondon  weighed 
heavily  on  Swift's  spirits.  *'  I  live  a  country  life  in  town," 
he  said,  *'  see  nobody,  and  go  every  day  once  to  prayers,  and 
hope  in  a  few  months  to  grow  as  stupid  as  the  present  situa- 
tion of  affairs  will  require."  Stella  and  Rebecca  Dingley  lived 
near  the  deanery,  and  Swift  saw  them  constantly.  But  the 
relations  between  the  two  were  not  as  perfect  as  in  the  old 
days.  Each  still  loved  the  other,  and  tried  to  act  as  though 
nothing  was  changed.  But  each  was  conscious  of  a  difference, 
and  this  consciousness  made  their  daily  intercourse  uneasy  and 
strained.  Swift  knew  that  he  had  not  been  perfectly  loyal  to 
the  woman  whose  life  he  had  so  long  dominated.  He  owed 
it  to  her  at  least,  that  the  friendship  he  offered  her,  and  which 
was  to  serve  her  in  place  of  the  love  she  might  have  received 
from  another  man,  should  be  staunch  and  flawless.  The 
knowledge  that  he  had  failed  in  this  obvious  duty  made  the 
daily  intercourse  which  had  once  been  his  delight,  a  painful 
pleasure.  Rumours  of  the  '  Vanessa '  episode  had  perhaps 
reached  Stella,  though  she  gave  no  sign.  Time  might  have 
brought  back  the  old  happy  freedom  if  the  two  had  been  left 
undisturbed.  But,  in  17 15  Esther  Vanhomrigh  came  to 
Ireland.  Her  mother  was  dead,  and  the  property  which  she 
had  left  to  her  daughters  was  situated  near  Dublin.  This 
was  the  ostensible  reason  for  Esther  and  her  sister  settling  at 
Cellbridge,  a  few  miles  from  the  capital ;  but  the  passion 
which  Esther  (who  knew  nothing  of  the  existence  of  Stella) 
had  conceived  for  Swift  supplied  a  more  powerful  motive. 
Swift's  teaching,  in  her  case,  had  been  in  vain.  Esther  could 
not,  as  Stella  had  done,  stifle  her  feehngs,  and  accept  her 
master's  dictum  that  friendship  was  superior  to  the  unreason- 
308 


GULLIVER'S    TRAVELS 

able  and  fleeting  passion  called  love.  A  meeting  between 
the  two  Esthers  might  any  day  take  place ;  and  Swift  had 
the  misery  of  feeling  that  both  the  women  who  loved  him 
were  unhappy  and  might  be  still  unhappier  through  his  fault. 

He  tried  conscientiously  to  put  his  heart  into  the  duties  of 
his  office.  He  was  zealous,  as  he  always  had  been,  for  the 
honour  of  the  Church.  He  improved  the  cathedral  services,  and 
saw  that  the  building  was  kept  in  good  condition.  To  the 
poor  he  appeared  in  the  character  most  natural  to  him,  that 
of  a  benevolent  though  terrifying  despot.  Parsimonious  as 
he  was,  his  almsgiving  had  always  been  on  a  royal  scale,  and 
now  while  the  housekeeping  at  the  deanery  was  carried  on  in 
a  manner  which  shocked  the  liberal  notions  of  the  Irish  gentry, 
large  sums  were  regularly  bestowed  upon  the  poor  old  women 
in  the  by -streets  of  DubUn  who  knew  the  Dean  and  blessed  him. 
If  some  of  those  whom  he  relieved  were  offended  by  his  summary 
methods  and  his  overbearing  ways,  there  were  not  wanting 
those  who  appreciated  his  biting  humour,  and  years  after- 
ward men  told  stories  they  had  heard  from  their  fathers 
and  mothers  about  the  sayings  and  doings  of  *  the  Dane.' 

But  there  were  many  hours  which  these  occupations  failed 
to  fill.  There  were  long  lonely  evenings  during  which  Swift 
sat  in  his  library,  haunted  by  bitter  memories  and  racked  with 
present  cares.  He  felt  that  his  tormented  brain  could  bear 
no  more,  and  that  madness  threatened  him.  It  was  probably 
purely  as  a  means  of  diverting  his  thoughts  that  he  began  a 
new  work.  During  the  winter  of  1713-14,  the  last  which  he 
had  spent  in  London,  Swift  had  joined  an  association  of  writers, 
known  as  the  Scriblerus  Club.  Pope,  Gay  and  Arbuthnot  were 
the  other  prominent  members.  The  object  of  the  club  was 
the  production  of  a  satire,  which  was  to  be  the  joint  work  of 
all  its  members.  The  plan  was  never  carried  out,  but  each 
member  seems  to  have  done  something  toward  fulfilUng  his 
part,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  idea  of  his  greatest  work — 
Gulliver  s  Travels — first  occurred  to  Swift  in  connexion  with 
this  scheme.  This  was  the  work  to  which  he  turned  when  he 
could  bear  the  loneliness  and  silence  of  the  Deanery  no  longer. 

309 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

We  do  not  know  exactly  when  it  was  begun,  but  in  a  letter 
written  to  Vanessa  in  1722  there  is  a  reference  to  the  second 
part  of  the  work,  some  portion  of  which  must  therefore  have 
been  written  before  that  time.  It  was  written  slowly.  Some- 
times Swift  seems  to  have  left  it  altogether,  for  weeks,  and 
even  months.  During  its  progress  he  probably  read  Robinson 
Crusoe,  for  Defoe's  work,  we  know,  speedily  reached  Ireland, 
and  this  may  have  given  him  some  hints  and  stimulated  his 
activity. 

He  begins  his  work,  as  Defoe  had  begun  Robinson  Crusoe, 
with  a  grave  and  circumstantial  account  of  the  descent, 
parentage,  and  early  life  of  his  hero,  but  he  brings  him  far  more 
quickly  to  the  island  where  his  adventures  are  to  take  place. 
Lemuel  GulUver,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  is  the  sole  survivor 
from  a  wreck  in  which  the  rest  of  those  on  board  perish  ;  but 
unlike  Robinson  Crusoe,  he  reaches  not  a  desert,  but  a  thickly 
populated  island.  In  the  description  of  the  tiny  beings,  not 
six  inches  high,  that  inhabit  it.  Swift  satirizes  the  human  race. 
He  removes,  as  it  were,  the  magnifying  glass  through  which 
men  habitually  behold  their  own  affairs,  and  he  shows  these  in 
their  real  insignificance  and  triviality.  The  account  which 
Reldresal,  Secretary  of  State  for  I/illiput,  gives  of  the  affairs 
of  the  country  is  really  a  satire  upon  the  political  and  religious 
feuds  of  England  at  the  time  when  Gulliver's  Travels  was 
written.  *'  For,"  says  Reldresal,  "  as  flourishing  a  condition 
as  we  may  appear  to  be  in  to  foreigners,  we  labour  under  two 
mighty  evils ;  a  violent  faction  at  home,  and  the  danger  of  an 
invasion  by  a  most  potent  enemy  from  abroad.  As  to  the 
first,  you  are  to  understand  that,  for  above  seventy  moons 
past,  there  have  been  two  struggling  parties  in  this  empire, 
under  the  names  of  Tramecksan  and  Slamecksan,  from  the  high 
and  low  heels  of  their  shoes,  by  which  they  distinguish  them- 
selves. It  is  alleged,  indeed,  that  the  high  heels  are  most 
agreeable  to  our  ancient  constitution  ;  but,  however  this  be,  his 
Majesty  hath  determined  to  make  use  of  only  low  heels  in  the 
administration  of  the  government,  and  all  ofl&ces  in  the  gift  of 
the  crown,  as  you  cannot  but  observe.  .  .  .  The  animosities 
310 


GULLIVER'S    TRAVELS 

between  these  two  parties  run  so  high  that  they  will  neither 
eat  nor  drink  nor  talk  with  each  other.  .  .  .  Now,  in  the 
midst  of  these  intestine  disquiets,  we  are  threatened  with  an 
invasion  from  the  island  of  Blefuscu,  which  is  the  other  great 
empire  of  the  universe,  almost  as  large  and  powerful  as  this  of 
his  Majesty.  ...  It  began  upon  the  following  occasion  :  It  is 
allowed  on  all  hands  that  the  primitive  way  of  breaking  eggs 
before  we  eat  them  was  upon  the  larger  end  ;  but  his  present 
Majesty's  grandfather,  while  he  was  a  boy,  going  to  eat  an  egg 
and  breaking  it  according  to  the  ancient  practice,  happened 
to  cut  one  of  his  fingers.  Whereupon  the  Emperor,  his  father, 
pubhshed  an  edict,  commanding  all  his  subjects,  upon  great 
penalties,  to  break  the  smaller  end  of  their  eggs.  The  people 
so  highly  resented  this  law,  that  our  histories  tell  us,  there 
have  been  six  rebelHons  raised  on  that  account ;  wherein  one 
Emperor  lost  his  life,  and  another  his  crown. ^  These  civil  commo- 
tions were  constantly  fomented  by  the  monarchs  of  Blefuscu  ; 
and  when  they  were  quelled,  the  exiles  always  fled  for  refuge 
to  that  empire.  It  is  computed  that  eleven  thousand  persons 
have  at  several  times  suffered  death  rather  than  submit  to 
break  their  eggs  at  the  smaller  end.  .  .  .  Now  the  Big-endian 
exiles  have  found  so  much  credit  in  the  Emperor  of  Blef uscu's 
Court  and  so  much  private  assistance  and  encouragement  from 
their  party  here  at  home,  that  a  bloody  war  hath  been  carried 
on  between  the  two  empires  for  six-and-thirty  moons,  with 
various  success." 

But  the  book  is  not  merely  a  political  satire.  It  may  indeed 
be  read  simply  as  a  delightful  story  of  wonderful  adventures, 
and  is  no  more  dependent  for  its  interest  upon  its  underlying 
poHtical  allegory  than  is  Robinson  Crusoe  upon  the  moral 
teaching  which  Defoe  declared  was  its  primary  purpose.  A 
Voyage  to  Lilliput  delights  the  imagination  of  the  child  and  at 
the  same  time  satisfies  the  keen  intellectual  tastes  of  the  scholar. 
It  is  full  of  a  characteristic  humour  which  does  not  as  in  some  of 
Swift's  works,  tend  to  become  coarse  or  savage.  The  King 
of  lyilHput,  who  was  "  taller  by  almost  the  breadth  of  my  nail, 
than  any  of  his  court,"  the  officers  who  searched  Gulliver  and 

3" 


\ 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ] 

described  his  watch  as  "  a  wonderful  kind  of  engine  "  which  '< 
they  conjectured  to  be  "  either  some  unknown  animal  or  the  \ 
God  that  he  worshipped  "  ;  the  fine  court  ladies  who  visited  ^ 
him  in  their  coaches  and  were  driven  round  his  table,  to  which  | 
a  movable  rim,  five  inches  high  had  been  fixed  to  prevent 
accidents ;  all  these  play  their  parts  with  a  gravity  and  i 
reasonableness  which,  in  such  tiny  creatures,  is  irresistibly 
mirth-provoking  and  delightful. 

The  second  book  of  Gulliver's  Travels  tells  of  the  voyage  to 
Brobdingnag,  a  country  peopled  with  giants  who  seemed  "  as 
tall  as  an  ordinary  spire-steeple."  Here  the  grass  in  the 
fields  was  twenty  feet  high,  and  the  corn  forty  feet,  the  rats 
were  the  size  of  a  large  mastiff,  the  wasps  as  big  as  partridges, 
and  the  larks  nine  times  as  large  as  a  full-grown  turkey.  The 
satire  in  this  book  is  more  general,  and  the  writer  attempts  to 
show  how  petty  and  ignoble  many  of  our  social  prejudices  and 
time-honoured  customs  would  appear  in  the  eyes  of  a  race 
whose  conceptions  were  larger  and  loftier  than  our  own.  The 
King  of  Brobdingnag  often  amused  himself  by  asking  Gulliver 
questions  concerning  his  country  and  his  people.  His  interest 
in  the  race  of  pigmies,  represented  by  this  strange  visitor  to 
his  land,  was  strong  enough  to  make  him  wish  for  a  full  and 
detailed  account  of  their  manners  and  customs.  After  this 
had  been  given  "in  five  audiences,  each  of  several  hours," 
the  king  summed  up  his  impressions.  "  By  what  I  have 
gathered  from  your  own  relation,"  he  said,  "  and  the  answers 
I  have  with  much  pains  wringed  and  extorted  from  you,  I 
cannot  but  conclude  the  bulk  of  your  natives  to  be  the  most 
pernicious  race  of  little  odious  vermin  that  nature  ever  suffered 
to  crawl  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth." 

It  was,  perhaps,  soon  after  the  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag  was 
finished  that  a  public  event  drew  Swift  from  the  retirement 
in  which,  for  ten  years,  he  had  lived.  A  patent  had  been 
given  to  a  man  named  Wood  for  the  manufacture  of  copper 
coins — ^popularly  known  as  Wood's  Halfpence — ^to  be  circu- 
lated in  Ireland.  Swift  opposed  the  contract,  and  wrote  against 
it  his  famous  Drapiers  Letters  (1724).  These,  for  a  time, 
312 


GULLIVER'S    TRAVELS 

brought  him  again  into  prominence,  and  his  hopes  of  prefer- 
ment in  England  revived.  In  1726  he  came  to  England  and 
endeavoured  to  push  his  cause.  But  once  more  he  failed  to 
obtain  anything  more  substantial  than  flattery  and  promises. 
Disgusted  and  embittered  he  returned  to  his  Irish  deanery. 

The  peculiar  hatred  of  mankind,  which,  in  spite  of  all  his 
splendid  charity  and  his  strong  attachments  to  individuals, 
had  always  marked  Swift's  relations  with  his  fellows,  had  now 
grown  into  an  overmastering  passion  of  loathing  and  contempt. 
"  I  heartily  hate  and  detest  that  animal  called  man,"  he  had 
written  to  Pope,  in  1725,  "  although  I  heartily  love  John, 
Peter,  Thomas,  and  so  forth."  When,  in  his  lonely  and  silent 
house,  he  sat  down  to  finish  Gulliver's  Travels,  this  feeling  was 
strong  upon  him.  Age  and  weakness  were  causing  the  strong 
control  which  his  will  had  exercised  upon  his  passions  to 
become  relaxed.  Sorrow  of  the  worst  kind  had  visited  him ; 
Vanessa  was  dead,  as  he  could  not  but  believe,  of  a  broken 
heart,  through  his  fault ;  Stella,  the  being  he  had  always 
loved  best  in  the  world,  was  dying.  The  intense  agony  of  his 
mind  was  hastening  the  oncoming  of  the  terrible  mental  malady 
whose  approach  he  had,  through  many  terrible  years  awaited 
with  shuddering  horror.  It  is  therefore,  perhaps,  scarcely 
surprising  to  find  that  the  last  two  books  of  Gulliver's  Travels 
— A  Voyage  to  Laputa,  and  A  Voyage  to  the  Houyhnhnms — are 
altogether  lacking  in  the  charm  which  the  previous  part  of  the 
book  possesses.  They  are  savage  attacks  upon  the  human 
race,  painful  to  read,  and  almost  impossible  to  discuss.  They 
are  the  product  of  a  diseased  mind,  and  bear  about  them  the 
marks  of  disease,  along  with  the  unmistakable  marks  of  genius. 
The  lyaputans,  so  absorbed  in  profitless  studies  that  they  had 
no  attention  to  spare  for  the  common  duties  and  moralities  of 
life  ;  the  people  of  I^agado,  who  spent  their  lives  in  such  vain 
projects  as  attempting  to  extract  sunshine  from  cucumbers  ; 
the  spirits  of  the  dead  ;  the  courtiers  of  lyUggnagg,  who  ap- 
proached their  king  crawling  upon  their  stomachs  and  licking 
the  dust  of  the  floor  ;  the  Struldbrugs,  or  immortals,  doomed 
after  the  age  of  four  score  to  pass  countless  ages  in  the  lowest 

X  313 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

state  of  senile  decay,  hated  and  despised  by  all,  and  longing 
vainly  for  death  to  end  their  misery  ;  and,  worst  of  all  the 
Yahoos,  the  loathsome,  bestial  caricatures  of  man,  who  lived 
in  subjection  to  the  wise  and  noble  Houyhnhnms,  or  horses — all 
these  show  the  utter  and  savage  contempt  which  Swift  felt 
for  his  fellow  men. 

In  January  1728  Stella  died,  and  on  the  night  of  her  death 
Swift  wrote  down  some  of  his  recollections  of  the  woman  he 
had  loved  so  long.  The  hopeless  agony  of  spirit  that  he  felt 
is  shown  plainly  in  the  brief  bald  sentences  wrung  from  his  sad 
heart.  He  could  love  deeply,  though  after  a  selfish  fashion, 
and  could  grieve  truly  and  faithfully  for  the  one  he  loved.  But 
grief  only  served  to  make  his  temper  more  fierce  and  savage. 
Gulliver's  Travels,  published  in  1726,  had  spread  his  fame 
throughout  Europe,  but  he  'showed  little  gratification  at 
tributes  from  the  race  he  despised  so  heartily.  He  aHenated 
many  of  his  friends  by  his  harsh  and  imperious  temper,  and 
gathered  round  himself  a  company  of  sycophants  who  bore  his 
savage  outbreaks  for  the  sake  of  the  gifts  to  be  obtained  through 
his  lordly  munificence.  Side  by  side  with  this  munificence 
grew  the  miserliness  which  made  him  stint  himself,  his  house- 
hold and  his  guests  in  a  manner  which  rendered  social  inter- 
course difficult  and  almost  impossible.  His  bodily  health 
declined  and  his  fits  of  overpowering  melancholy  became  more 
and  more  frequent.  The  activity  of  a  brain  incapable  of 
sustained  effort  drove  him  to  the  production  of  a  great  deal  of 
worthless  literature,  consisting  mainly  of  puns,  riddles,  acrostics 
and  the  grimmest  of  jokes.  Some  of  his  friends  remained  faithful 
throughout  this  dreary  period,  and  occasionally  there  came 
flashes  of  the  old  genius  lighting  the  way.  But,  taken  as  a 
whole,  the  years  which  followed  Stella's  death  were  years  of 
gradual  but  steady  decay.  The  mental  disease  crept  on,  gaining 
ever  more  and  more  ground  until,  in  1741,  Swift  was  declared 
incapable  of  managing  his  own  affairs  and  was  placed  under 
control.  Four  years  of  this  death  in  life  followed,  until  in 
October  1745  the  end  came,  and  the  great,  but  unhappy  genius, 
Jonathan  Swift,  died,  quietly  and  painlessly,  like  a  child. 

314 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   SEASONS 

THE  literature  of  the  Augustan  age  was  a  literature  of 
the  town.  Some  of  its  writers  were  men  actively  con- 
cerned in  affairs  of  State,  and  working  for  political 
as  well  as  for  literary  rewards ;  some  were,  or  aspired  to  be, 
men  of  fashion,  dashing  gallants  who  cut  a  fine  figure  at  St. 
James's.  For  them  the  miracle  through  which  the  street- 
dwellers  of  Elizabeth's  day  had  learnt  how  to  sing  of  fields  and 
flowers  and  quiet  country  skies  was  not  repeated.  These  men 
of  a  later  age  were  townsmen,  while  Shakespeare  and  his  great 
company  were  simply  town-dwellers.  The  interest  of  the 
Augustan  writers  was  mainly  concentrated  upon  man  as  a 
member  of  an  urban  society,  and  from  this  point  of  view 
they  described  him  and  his  surroundings  with  the  nicest  exacti- 
tude. They  knew  man  as  the  coffee-houses  and  clubs  and 
playhouses  saw  him,  they  knew  his  foUies  and  absurdities, 
his  fashionable  vices  and  his  unfashionable  virtues  ;  and  in 
smoothly  poUshed  brilliant  lines  they  told  of  what  they 
knew.  But  they  seldom  ventured  beyond  the  narrow 
region  thus  marked  out,  and,  consequently,  their  readers 
cannot  fail  to  feel  that,  in  spite  of  the  finished  excellence  of 
style  and  expression,  their  limitations  are  too  marked  to 
allow  of  their  works  being  classed  as  really  the  greatest 
literature. 

One  such  limitation  must  at  once  strike  all  those  who  come 
to  the  study  of  the  Augustan  writers  after  reading  the  works 
of  our  earlier  poets.  That  close  and  loving  familiarity  with 
Nature  which,  from  the  days  when  our  far-off  ancestors  wrote 
Beowulf,  had  marked  EngUsh  poetry,  has  gone.     Where  is  the 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

"  Sweet  May  morning  "  of  which  Chaucer  and  his  fellows  were 
used  to  sing  ?     Hear  how  Swift  sees  it : 

Now  hardly  here  and  there  a  hackney  coach 
Appearing,  show'd  the  ruddy  morn's  approach. 

The  slip-shod  'prentice  from  his  master's  door 

Had  pared  the  dirt,  and  sprinkled  round  the  floor. 

Now  Moll  had  whirl'd  her  mop  with  dext'rous  airs. 

Prepared  to  scrub  the  entry  and  the  stairs. 

The  youth  with  broomy  stumps  began  to  trace 

The  kennel's  edge,  where  wheels  had  worn  the  place. 

The  small-coal  man  was  heard  with  cadence  deep. 

Till  drown'd  in  shriller  notes  of  chimney-sweep  : 

Duns  at  his  lordship's  gate  began  to  meet  ; 

Aiid  brickdust  Moll  had  scream'd  through  half  the  street. 

Where  are  the  '*  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue,  and  lady's- 
smocks  all  silver  white,"  which  "  paint  with  delight "  the 
meadows  in  which  Shakespeare  bids  us  wander  ?  The  only 
flowers  for  which  the  Arch-poet  of  the  Augustan  age  cared  were 
those  which  were  planted  in  neat  rows  round  the  trim  lawns 
at  Twickenham — ^from  which  paradise  such  common  flowers  as 
daisies  and  violets  and  lady's-smocks  were,  doubtless,  strictly 
excluded.  The  Spectator  went  down  with  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  into  the  country  and  sent  us  never  a  word  about 
fragrant  hayfields,  or  running  streams,  or  lambs  at  play  in  the 
meadows.  The  most  rural  object  that  he  noted  was  a  walk  of 
tall  and  aged  elms  which  the  vulgar  supposed  to  be  haunted, 
and  a  cow  which  a  frightened  footman  took  to  be  a  ghost. 

But  the  time  was  coming,  though  it  was  not  yet  within 
sight,  when  all  this  would  be  changed,  and  men  would  once 
more  deem  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  country  better  worth 
recording  than  the  trivial  happenings  of  the  town.  Signs  of 
the  coming  change  were  not  wanting.  In  the  same  year  that 
Gulliver's  Travels  took  the  town  by  storm,  a  poem  in  blank 
verse,  called  Winter  made  a  quiet  and  unnoticed  appearance. 
Few  people  heard  of  it,  and  fewer  still  read  it  until,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  tells  us,  "  by  accident,  Mr.  Whately,  a  man  not 
wholly  unknown  among  authors,  happening  to  turn  his  eye 
upon  it,  was  so  delighted  that  he  ran  from  place  to  place, 
celebrating  its  excellence."  Attention  being  thus  drawn  to 
316 


THE    SEASONS 

the  work,  inquiries  began  to  be  made  concerning  the  author — 
James  Thomson,  as  appeared  from  the  title-page.  Thomson 
was  found  to  be  a  young  Scotsman,  twenty-six  years  of  age, 
who  had  lately  come  from  his  native  county  of  Roxburgh  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  lyondon.  He  was  the  son  of  a  minister  of 
the  Scottish  Church,  and  through  the  kindness  of  one  of  his 
father's  friends  had  received  a  good  education,  first  at  the 
school  of  Jedburgh,  and  afterward  at  Edinburgh  University. 
His  parents  had  designed  him  for  a  minister,  but  his  own 
tendency  had  always  been  toward  literature,  and  he  had 
decided  that  he  would  become  a  poet.  With  his  poem.  Winter, 
in  his  pocket,  he  had  come  to  lyondon.  For  this  poem  a  book- 
seller (for  booksellers  were,  in  those  days,  usually  publishers 
as  well)  had  at  last  agreed  to  give  the  small  sum  of  three 
pounds.  Thomson  was  suffering  from  the  extreme  pinch  of 
poverty  when  the  critical  insight  of  Mr.  Whately  brought  him 
intq  public  notice. 

A  few  readers  were  found  to  agree  with  this  enthusiastic 
gentleman,  and  gradually  Winter  crept  toward  fame.  It  was 
so  entirely  different  from  the  most  admired  poems  of  the  day 
that  wide  or  instant  popularity  could  not  be  expected  for  it. 
But  to  a  small  circle  of  readers  it  came  Uke  a  welcome  country 
breeze  blowing  through  hot,  close  city  streets ♦  Men  read  with 
delight  Thomson's  minute  and  realistic  descriptions  of  the 
common  earth  beneath  their  feet,  and  the  sky  spread  out 
above,  of  the  animals  and  the  birds,  man's  lowly  brethren; 
of  the  changes  which,  from  day  to  day  and  hour  to  hour  pass 
over  the  face  of  nature.  For  a  long  time  the  poets  had  dis- 
dained such  subjects,  and  held  them  to  be  beneath  the  dignity 
of  poetry.  But  this  Scottish  youth  living  far  from  cities,  had 
grown  into  close  familiarity  with  the  scenes  and  appearances  of 
his  native  country,  and  had  chosen  these  for  his  theme.  He 
had  watched  a  snowstorm  coming  on  : 

The  keener  tempests  come  :   and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  East  or  piercing  North, 
Thick  clouds  ascend ;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along, 

317 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends. 
At  first  thin- wavering  ;   till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad  and  wide  and  fast,  dimming  the  day. 
With  a  continual  flow. 

He  had  looked  sympathetically  upon  the  beasts  and  birds 
of  the  field  exposed  to  the  keenness  of  the  storm — ^the  "  labourer- 
ox,"  the  "redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods,"  the  ^ 
hare,  "  timorous  of  heart,"  and  all  the  **  bleating  kind  " — had/ 
seen  them  "  Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening 
earth,  With  looks  of  dumb  despair."  It  is  to  this  close  ob- 
servation of  external  nature  that  Thomson's  poem  owes  its 
originality  and  its  merit. 

The  success  of  Winter  encouraged  the  poet  to  proceed  with 
another  work  on  a  similar  subject,  and  in  1727  Summer  was 
published,  followed  in  1728  by  Spring.  By  these  he  increased 
the  reputation  which  his  first  poem  had  brought  him.  In  1730 
came  Autumn  and  the  closing  Hymn  with  which  the  poem  of 
The  Seasons  reached  a  triumphant  conclusion. 

The  Seasons  is  Thomson's  masterpiece.  He  wrote  other 
works,  plays  and  poems,  but  none,  except  The  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence added  much  to  his  reputation.  Through  these  two  poems 
he  takes  a  high  place  among  those  writers  who  fall  just  behind 
the  front  rank  which  contains  the  greatest  of  all.  The  im- 
portance of  his  work  in  the  history  of  English  literature  is  very 
great.  In  an  age  when  artificiality  was  the  fashion,  when 
Pope  and  his  friends  were  laying  down  absolute  laws  concern- 
ing both  the  subject-matter  and  the  style  of  poetry,  Thomson 
ventured  to  follow  his  own  natural  bent.  He  wrote  upon  the 
subject  that  interested  him  most,  though  that  subject  was 
tabooed  by  the  reigning  masters  of  his  craft ;  and  he  cast  his 
writing  into  the  form  which  seemed  to  him  fittest  for  the  pur- 
pose, though  blank  verse  had  gone  out  with  Milton,  and  the 
heroic  couplet,  had  long  been  considered  the  only  proper 
medium  for  the  poet.  By  so  doing  he  took  the  first  step  to- 
ward bringing  poetry  back  to  a  freer  and  more  natural  style, 
and  began  the  movement  which  was  carried  on  by  Cowper, 
Collins  and  Gray,  and  culminated  in  the  work  of  Wordsworth. 

318 


Later  Eighteenth  Century 

THIS  period  saw  the  rise  of  the  novel  through  the  works 
of  Richardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne,  Goldsmith, 
Fanny  Burney,  and  a  host  of  their  imitators.  It  saw 
also  a  further  stage  in  the  reaction  against  the  artificial  style  in 
poetry  that  had  marked  the  age  of  Pope.  In  1747  William 
Collins  published  his  beautiful  series  of  odes — To  Evening, 
The  Passions,  and  To  Pity.  ColHns  was  a  friend  and 
admirer  of  Thomson,  whose  death  he  mourned  in  the  fine  poem 
beginning,  "  In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies,"  but  his  lyrical 
gift  was  far  greater  than  that  of  the  elder  poet.  *'  Here,"  says 
Swinburne,  "  in  the  twilight  that  followed  on  the  splendid 
sunset  of  Pope,  was  at  last  a  poet  who  was  content  to  sing  out 
what  he  had  in  him — to  sing,  and  not  to  say,  without  a  glimpse 
of  wit  or  a  flash  of  eloquence."  Collins's  Odes  were  followed  by 
Gray's  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  which  was 
published  in  1750,  though  it  was  probably  written  about  1742. 
Gray  wrote  also  various  other  poems  including  The  Progress  of 
Poesy  and  The  Bard.  In  1752  was  born  the  unfortunate  poet, 
Chatterton,  who,  when  he  was  only  fifteen  years  old,  began  to 
produce  poems  which  he  declared  were  the  work  of  Thomas 
Rowley,  a  priest  of  Bristol,  who  had  lived  in  the  fifteenth 
ceiltury,  and  had  been  discovered  by  him,  Chatterton.  In 
spite  of  the  great  merit  of  his  work,  he  failed  to  gain  such 
recognition  and  employment  as  would  preserve  him  from 
starvation,  and  he  died  by  his  own  hand,  before  he  was  eighteen 
years  old.  In  1783  came  Cowper's  Task,  which  marks  a  great 
step  forward  ;  and  three  years  later  were  published  the  early 
lyrics  of  Robert  Burns.  The  strange  and  beautiful  lyrics  of 
William  Blake  which  appeared  between  1783  and  1795  brought 
lyric  poetry  to  the  stage  at  which  it  was  ready  for  the  great 
development  which  came  with  the  nineteenth  century. 

319 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
PAMELA   :  JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

BKFORK  the  first  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century  was 
ended,  the  Augustan  age — that  golden  period  for 
Knghsh  writers — had  passed  away.  A  new  dynasty 
was  estabHshed  in  England,  and  the  patronage  of  the  Crown 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  men  whose  interest  in  literature 
was  small,  and  who,  unlike  their  predecessors,  set  little  value 
upon  the  support  that  could  be  given  to  their  policy  by  fine 
poems  or  witty  satires.  The  life  history  of  Addison,  of  Steele, 
of  Pope,  and  of  Swift  must  have  seemed  to  the  writers  under 
the  second  George  like  fairy-tales  of  some  bygone  Elysium.  To 
them  came  no  lucrative  offices  or  splendid  rewards  ;  no  great 
lords  sued  for  their  company,  no  high-born  ladies  contended  for 
their  favour.  When  we  look  for  these  writers  of  a  later  age 
we  shall  not  find  them  at  St.  James's,  or  in  those  quarters  of 
the  town  where  the  great  world  resorts.  We  shall  find  them  in 
modest  homes  in  the  city  or  its  unfashionable  suburbs ;  or,  lower 
still,  in  miserable  Grub  Street  garrets,  in  Shoe  I^ane  taverns,  in 
the  debtors'  prisons.  Their  fortune  must  depend  upon  their  suc- 
cess in  gaining  the  ear  of  a  small  and  not  easily  accessible  read- 
ing public ;  their  reward  must  consist  in  the  hard  earnings  won 
by  severe  toil,  not  in  the  splendid  gifts  of  munificent  patrons. 
It  is  to  these  humbler  regions  that  we  must  now  turn.  We 
will  imagine  ourselves  walking  one  afternoon  toward  the  end  of 
the  year  1739,  down  Fleet  Street,  and  turning  into  a  Httle 
court  leading  out  of  the  main  thoroughfare.  We  will  enter 
the  house  which  stands  in  the  middle  of  this  court.  It  is  a 
large  and  high  building,  used  partly  as  a  dwelling-house,  partly 
as  a  printing  estabUshment.     Obviously  the  business  carried 

321 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

on  here  is  a  thriving  one.  The  printing  presses  are  busily  at 
work,  carts  are  loading  and  unloading  at  the  door,  workmen! 
pass  to  and  fro,  and  the  whole  place  hums  like  a  hive  of  in-i 
dustry.  If  we  look  into  the  private  office  beyond  the  outer  j 
shop  we  shall  see  the  originator  and  controller  of  all  this! 
activity.  He  is  a  short,  plump,  rosy-cheeked  man  of  fifty,  with  I 
a  demure  air,  and  a  gentle,  kindly  manner.  He  wears  a  fair 
wig,  and  his  clothes  are  sober  in  colour  and  cut  and  excellent 
in  quality.  He  looks,  in  fact,  what  he  is — the  industrious' 
apprentice,  who,  beginning  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  has  by; 
steady  application  and  frugal  living  gradually  raised  his  for-- 
tune ;  has,  after  the  manner  of  industrious  apprentices, 
married  his  master's  daughter  ;  and  has  become  an  eminently! 
respectable  member  of  citizen  society.  At  the  moment  when: 
we  first  see  him  he  is  writing  one  of  those  '  honest  dedications  '] 
for  which  he  is  famous,  and  is  glowing  with  moral  ardour  as  thej 
virtuous  sentiments  flow  readily  from  his  pen.  When  the 
day's  business  is  over,  he  will  betake  himself  to  his  own  private 
part  of  the  house,  where  his  wife — not  the  '  master's  daughter  '^ 
of  his  earlier  career,  for  she  died  eight  years  ago,  and  the. 
printer  remarried  in  the  next  year — his  four  daughters,  and  hid 
baby  son  await  him.  He  will  eat  the  meal  his  careful  wifeS 
has  prepared  for  him — eat  it  probably  not  without  some  little 
plaintive  grumbling,  for  he  suffers  from  nervous  disorders  which 
derange  his  digestion.  Afterward  he  will  sit  down  again  to 
write,  for  he  cannot  long  be  happy  without  a  pen  in  his  hand.! 
To-night  he  is  engaged  in  a  new  project.  He  has  lately  been' 
asked  by  two  of  his  friends,  publishers,  to  write  "  a  littld 
volume  of  lyCtters,  in  a  common  style,  on  such  subjects  asj 
might  be  of  use  to  those  country  readers,  who  were  unable  to 
indite  for  themselves."  Such  an  invitation  was  especially 
welcome  to  Richardson,  who,  from  his  earliest  years,  had  been 
a  voluminous  letter- writer,  both  on  his  own  behalf,  and  on  that 
of  other  people.  "  I  was  an  early  favourite,"  he  tells  us,  *'  with 
all  the  young  women  of  taste  and  reading  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Half  a  dozen  of  them,  when  met  to  work  with  their 
needles,  used,  when  they  got  a  book  they  liked,  and  thought  I 
322  i 


Samuel  Richardson 

From  an  old  Engraving 


322 


PAMELA 

should,  to  borrow  me  to  read  to  them  ;  .  .  .  I  was  not  more 
than  thirteen,  when  some  of  these  young  women,  unknown 
to  each  other,  having  a  high  opinion  of  my  taciturnity,  revealed 
to  me  their  love-secrets,  in  order  to  induce  me  to  give  them 
copies  to  write  after,  or  correct,  for  answers  to  their  lover's 
letters ;  nor  did  anyone  of  them  ever  know  that  I  was  the 
secretary  to  the  others.'* 

Practice  of  this  kind  had  made  Richardson  perfect  in  his 
favourite  art.  But  he  was  a  moralist  even  before  he  was  a 
letter-writer,  and  when  his  friends  made  to  him  their  proposi- 
tion for  a  series  of  letters,  he  hastened  to  ensure  that  these 
should  contain  a  moral  element.  " '  Will  it  be  any  harm,' 
said  I, '  in  a  piece  you  want  to  be  written  so  low,  if  we  should 
instruct  them  how  they  should  think  and  act  in  common  cases, 
as  well  as  indite  ? '  They  were  the  more  urgent  with  me  to  begin 
the  little  volume  for  this  hint.     I  set  about  it." 

We  can  imagine  Richardson  as  he  *  set  about '  this  labour 
of  love,  and  can  picture  the  enjoyment  with  which,  having 
chosen  his  subjects  and  titles,  he  assumed  the  position  of  moral 
guide  to  the  unlearned,  whom  he  aspired  to  teach  "  how  to  think 
and  act  justly  and  prudently,  in  the  common  concerns  of 
human  life."  One  class  of  the  letters  that  he  wrote  aroused 
his  particular  enthusiasm.  The  story  must  be  told  in  his 
own  words.  "  In  the  progress  of  it  "  {i.e.  of  the  collection  of 
letters)  "  writing  two  or  three  letters  to  instruct  handsome 
girls  who  were  obliged  to  go  out  to  service,  as  we  phrase  it,  how 
to  avoid  the  snares  that  might  be  laid  against  their  virtue,  I 
thought  of  a  story  I  had  heard  many  years  before."  The  story 
was  about  a  young  girl,  who  "  had  been  taken  at  twelve  years 
of  age,  for  the  sweetness  of  her  manners  and  modesty,  and  for 
an  understanding  above  her  years "  into  the  service  of  a 
wealthy  lady.  Here  "  improving  daily  in  beauty,  modesty,  and 
genteel  and  good  behaviour,"  she  had  gained  the  love  of  all 
who  knew  her.  She  had  resisted  all  the  temptations  to  which 
her  position  made  her  liable,  and  had  remained  a  model  of 
virtue,  prudence,  and  good  sense.  Finally,  she  had  married 
her  mistress's  son,  and,  in  her  new  rank,  had  "  behaved  herself 

323 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  J 

with  so  much  dignity,  sweetness  and  humility,  that  she  made  1 

herself  beloved  of  everybody,  and  even  by  his  relations,  who  at  ; 

first  despised  her ;  and  now  had  the  blessings  both  of  rich  and  ! 

poor,  and  the  love  of  her  husband."  : 

The  recollection  of  this  story  suggested  to  Richardson  the  ; 

composition  of  a  work  more  connected  and  more  important  ; 

than  the  series  of  letters  on  which  he  was  engaged.     He  began  •■ 

to  write  an  account  of  the  adventures  of  this  servant-girl  \ 

heroine,  in  the  form  of  letters  written  by  her  to  her  parents.  1 

"  lyittle  did  I  think,  at  first,"  he  says,  "  of  making  one,  much  j 

less  two  volumes  of  it.  ...  I  thought  the  story,  if  written  in  j 

an  easy,  natural  manner,  suitable  to  the  simplicity  of  it,  might  j 

possibly  introduce  a  new  species  of  writing,  that  might  possibly  [ 

turn  young  people  into  a  course  of  reading  different  from  the  • 

pomp  and  parade  of  romance  writing,  and  dismissing  the  im-  i 

probable  and  marvellous,  with  which  novels  generally  abound,  j 

might  tend  to  promote  the  cause  of  religion  and  virtue."     But  ' 

as  the  work  proceeded  the  ardour  of  composition  increased,  j 

Richardson's  actual  letters  to  his  correspondents  had  always  ■ 

been  lengthy  and  verbose,  but  his  own  prolixity  became  as  ! 

nothing   beside   the   prolixity   with   which   he   endowed   his  ! 

heroine.     If   any   servant-girl   ever   wrote   letters   after   the 

fashion  of  Pamela — for  so  Richardson  called  her,  taking  the  i 

name  perhaps,  from  one  of  the  characters  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's   i 

Arcadia — she  would  have  little  time  left  for  the  duties  of  her   ; 

situation.     But  considerations  of  this  kind  did  not  occur  to  the    ■ 

enthusiastic  printer,  newly  turned  author.     He  did  not  stop  to    ''■ 

criticize,  but  wrote  on  and  on,  giving  the  minutest  details  relat-    | 

ing  to  his  heroine's  life  and  conduct,  analysing  with  microscopic   \ 

exactness  the  thoughts  and  impulses  of  her  heart.     His  en-    \ 

thusiasm  imparted  itself  to  his  wife,  and  to  a  young  lady  visitor    i 

then  staying  in  the  house.     Every  evening,  he  tells  us,  they    \ 

would  come  to  his  little  wiiting-closet,  saying,  "  Have  you  any 

more  of  Pamela,  Mr.  R.  ?     We  are  come  to  hear  a  little  more    J 

of  Pamela."     Then  the  proud  author  would  read  them  his    i 

latest  pages,  and  drink  in  the  sweetness  of  the  praises  and 

flattery  they  lavished  upon  him.  j 

324  j 


PAMELA 

Pamela  was  begun  on  November  lo,  1739,  and  finished 
January  10, 1740.  It  was  published  November  1740,  with  a 
title-page  that  ran  as  follows  :  Pamela  :  or  Virtue  Rewarded. 
In  a  Series  of  Familiar  I^etters  from  a  beautiful  young  Damsel 
to  her  Parents.  Now  first  published  in  order  to  cultivate  the 
Principles  of  Virtue  and  Religion  in  the  Minds  of  the  Youth 
of  both  Sexes.  A  Narrative  which  has  its  Foundation  in 
Truth  and  Nature  ;  and  at  the  same  time  that  it  agreeably 
entertains,  by  a  Variety  of  curious  and  affecting  Incidents,  is 
intirely  divested  of  all  those  Images,  which,  in  too  many 
Pieces  calculated  for  Amusement  only,  tend  to  inflame  the 
Minds  they  should  instruct." 

Thus  casually,  almost  accidentally  was  the  book  written 
which  occupies  such  an  important  position  in  the  history  of 
the  English  novel.  There  had  been  before  Richardson  many 
writers  of  stories  and  romances,  but  Pamela  is  fundamentally 
different  from  any  of  these.  It  deals  with  the  ordinary  events 
of  everyday  life,  and  owes  none  of  its  interest  to  the  mar- 
vellous, or  the  unusual ;  it  has  a  clear  and  carefully  defined 
plot  though  this  is  somewhat  obscured  by  the  diffuseness  of 
the  treatment ;  it  attempts,  though  with  no  very  great  success, 
to  present  characters  that  become  vivid  and  life-like  to  the 
reader  through  the  inner  workings  of  their  minds  rather  than 
through  their  outward  appearance  and  behaviour  ;  and,  in  order 
to  do  this,  it  undertakes  such  a  minute  and  searching  analysis 
of  feeling  and  motive  as,  in  itself,  suffices  to  mark  the  book  as 
an  entirely  new  departure  in  fiction. 

Pamela  achieved  an  instantaneous  and  enormous  success. 
It  was  hailed  as  the  greatest  work  on  the  side  of  morality,  that 
the  age  had  seen.  Clergymen  praised  it  from  their  pulpits,  and 
ladies  wrote  to  Richardson  thanking  him  for  his  charming,  his 
elevating,  his  incomparable  book.  Pope  said  that  it  "  would 
do  more  good  than  many  volumes  of  sermons."  Fashionable 
ladies  were  careful  to  exhibit  their  copies  in  places  of  public 
resort,  to  show  that  they  were  not  behindhand  in  the  study  of 
a  book  which  the  world  had  agreed  to  praise.  But  the  most 
striking  tribute  to  the  real  human  power  of  the  book  lies 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

in  the  story  which  is  told  of  the  villagers  of  Slough.  For  many 
evenings  they  had  gathered  round  the  fire  of  the  local  forge, 
while  the  blacksmith  read  aloud  the  history  of  Pamela.  When 
he  came  to  the  triumphant  conclusion  which  left  her  a  great 
lady,  his  audience,  transported  with  delight,  rushed  to  the 
church  and  insisted  on  ringing  the  bells. 

It  is  difficult  for  us  to-day  to  understand  the  general  con- 
temporary estimate  of  Pamela,  It  appears  to  a  modern 
reader  intolerably  tedious  and  long  drawn  out,  so  that  he 
heartily  agrees  with  the  first  part  of  the  criticism  passed  by 
Dr.  Johnson  on  the  book.  "  If  you  read  Richardson  for  the 
story  your  impatience  would  be  so  great  that  you  would  hang 
yourself.  But  you  must  read  him  for  the  sentiment,  and 
consider  the  story  only  as  giving  rise  to  the  sentiment.'* 
Nowadays,  however,  the  sentiment  seems  even  less  tolerable 
than  the  story,  and  it  is  only  the  very  determined  reader  who 
gets  far  enough  into  Pamela  to  appreciate  its  undoubted 
merits.  There  are  some  charming  pictures  of  the  pretty 
heroine  at  the  various  stages  of  her  career.  We  see  her  as  she 
stands  blushing  before  her  master,  dressed  in  a  gown  she  has 
made  for  herself  of  **  a  good  sad  coloured  stuff,"  with  "  robings 
and  facings  of  a  pretty  bit  of  printed  calicoe  I  had  by  me,"  a 
'*  round  ear'd  cap  "  upon  her  head,  and  "  a  pair  of  knit  mittens 
turned  up  with  white  calicoe  "  upon  her  hands  ;  her  gown 
short  enough  to  show  the  "  blue  worsted  hose  that  make  a 
smartish  appearance  with  white  clocks."  Or  again,  when 
some  fine  lady  visitors  have  petitioned  to  see  the  servant  maid 
known  as  "  the  greatest  beauty  in  the  country."  "  The 
Countess  took  me  by  the  hand.  Don't  be  asham'd  child  :  I 
wish  I  had  just  such  a  face  to  be  asham'd  of."  The  other 
ladies  join  in  praising  and  teasing  her.  *'  Can  the  pretty 
image  speak  ?  "  asks  one.  Pamela,  of  course,  behaves  with 
the  utmost  propriety.  "  I  beg,  said  I,  to  withdraw  :  for  the 
sense  I  have  of  my  unworthiness  renders  me  unfit  for  such  a 
presence.  I  then  went  away  with  one  of  my  best  curchees." 
This  sense  of  her  own  unworthiness  must  have  been  strong 
indeed,  to  have  persisted  in  face  of  the  chorus  of  praise  that 
326 


PAMELA 

most  of  her  letters  are  occupied  in  recording  ;  for  Pamela 
suffers  under  the  disadvantage  imposed  upon  all  heroines  who 
tell  their  own  stories,  that  she  must,  out  of  her  own  mouth, 
let  us  know  how  good,  and  wise,  and  beautiful  she  is.  The 
telling  scarcely  seems  to  embarrass  her,  and  she  makes  no 
difficulty  in  going  about  the  business  in  the  plainest  manner. 
Finally  she  tells  of  all  the  glories  of  her  newly  married  state — 
how  she  went  to  church  on  Sunday  in  the  "  best  chariot " 
which  had  been  "  clean'd,  lin'd,  and  new  harness'd  "  ;  how 
the  coachman  and  footman  wore  their  new  liveries ;  how 
splendid  she  herself  was  in  a  "  suit  of  white,  flower'd  with  gold, 
and  rich  head-dress  with  a  diamond  necklace  and  earrings." 
She  tells  how,  when  she  and  her  husband  walked  up  the  aisle 
of  the  church  "  a  little  late,"  there  were  abundance  of  gazers 
and  whisperers,  but  how  she  cared  for  none  of  them  since  her 
"  dear  master  behaved  with  so  intrepid  an  air  and  was  so 
cheerful  and  complaisant  to  me,  that  he  did  credit  to  his  kind 
choice,  instead  of  showing  that  he  was  ashamed  of  it." 

The  morality  of  Pamela,  which  the  eighteenth  century 
judged  to  be  of  such  superlative  quality,  seems  to  a  later  age 
to  be  little  more  than  a  detailed  exposition  on  the  theme, 
*'  honesty  is  the  best  policy."  Pamela  has  too  keen  an  eye  to 
her  own  interests,  is  too  prudent  and  calculating,  and  receives 
with  too  much  rapture  the  proposal  of  marriage  made  by  a 
man  whose  courtship  of  her  can  only  be  regarded  as  a  series  of 
insults,  to  be  a  favourite  heroine  with  the  present  generation. 
Yet  she  is  not  without  charm,  and  for  many  of  her  faults  the 
public  standard  of  the  time,  and  not  her  creator,  is  responsible. 

No  one  was  more  surprised  than  Samuel  Richardson  himself 
at  the  reception  given  to  Pamela.  "  Its  strange  Success  at 
Publication,"  he  wrote,  six  years  later,  "  is  still  my  Surprize." 
Yet  he  found  the  attention  and  the  homage  that  it  brought 
him  very  pleasant.  He  had  lately  bought  a  country  house  at 
Fulham,  where  he  had  begun  to  spend  all  the  time  that  he 
could  spare  from  his  business  in  Salisbury  Court.  At  this 
house  he  received  his  admirers — principally  ladies  ;  and  here 
were  held  those  tea-drinkings  which  none   of  the  wits  who 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

have  poked  fun  at  the  kindly,  industrious,  nervous  little' 
printer  have  forgotten.  They  have  shown  him  as  the  centre 
of  an  adoring  group  who  hung  upon  the  words  of  their  "  dear 
Mr.  Richardson "  and  purred  their  admiration  of  his  great 
gifts  ;  while  he,  trying  to  enact  the  part  of  lion,  could  produce 
only  a  roar  of  the  very  feeblest  description.  The  picture  is, 
no  doubt,  exaggerated  ;  but  it  is  probably  true  that  Richardson 
received  far  more  praise  than  was  good  for  him,  and  suffered 
in  consequence. 

The  chorus  of  praise  was,  however,  not  left  undisturbed  by 
harsher  notes.  It  was  inevitable  that  Pamela  should  excite 
among  men  whose  minds  were  of  a  stronger,  more  virile 
character  than  Richardson's  own,  a  certain  amount  of  ridicule. 
Parodies  were  soon  forthcoming.  One  of  these.  An  Apology 
for  the  Life  of  Mrs.  Shamela  Andrews,  was  a  really  clever  pro- 
duction, and  caused  Richardson  great  annoyance.  But  the 
most  famous  of  the  books  to  which  Pamela  gave  rise  was 
Joseph  Andrews,  of  which  some  account  must  now  be  given. 

Among  the  readers  of  Pamela  was  a  young  man,  lately  called 
to  the  Bar,  named  Henry  Fielding.  Fielding  was,  in  almost 
every  respect,  the  exact  opposite  of  Richardson,  with  whom 
he  had  some  slight  acquaintance.  He  was  well-born  and  well- 
educated,  but  his  father,  a  soldier  who  had  fought  with 
distinction  under  Marlborough,  had  so  large  a  family  that  he 
was  able  to  do  little  for  his  younger  sons.  Since,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  he  had  left  Ley  den  University  where  he  had  gone 
to  study  law,  Henry  Fielding  had  been  living  by  his  wits,  in 
London.  He  had  written  many  plays,  some  of  which  had 
attained  a  measure  of  success,  while  others  had  been  complete 
failures.  In  prosperous  times  he  had  rioted  and  feasted  with 
his  brothers  of  the  theatre,  and  when  all  his  money  was  gone 
he  had  retired  to  his  miserable  garret,  and,  in  hot  haste  had 
scribbled  a  play  that  might  serve  to  bring  in  a  few  pounds  for 
immediate  needs.  He  had  married  and  set  up  a  grand 
establishment  in  Dorsetshire  on  his  wife's  small  fortune.  In  a 
few  months  the  fortune  was  spent,  and  Fielding  was  back 
again  in  London.  He  had  taken  up  again  his  theatrical  work, 
328 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

but  had  soon  found  that  the  proceeds  of  his  writing  were  too 
small  to  enable  him  to  support  his  wife  and  his  baby  daughter. 
He  had  therefore  returned  to  his  early  project  of  studying  for 
the  Bar,  and  in  1740  had  been  '  called '  and  had  set  up  as  a 
barrister.     He  had  eked  out  his  scanty  income  by  contributions 
to  various  newspapers,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  troubles  he  was  still, 
at  three-and-tliirty,  a  careless,  generous,  high-spirited,  impro- 
vident, genial  man,  eager  for  any  project  which  offered  a  chance 
of  exercise  for  his  keen  wits,  and  money  for  his  needy  family. 
Such  a  man  could  not  fail  to  see  the  weak  points  of  Pamela, 
and  the  thought  of  the  serious,  fussy  little  printer  who  was 
the  author  of  the  book  strengthened  the  temptation  Fielding 
felt  toward  parodying  the  work  which  his  robust  judgment 
condemned  as  sentimental  and  even  maudlin.     He  set  to  work 
to  write  the  history  of  Joseph  Andrews,  brother  to  Pamela,  a 
serving-man  who  was  subjected  to  temptations  similar  to 
those  which  his  famous  sister  had  so  triumphantly  surmounted. 
Fielding    proclaimed    that   the  full  name  of  '  Mr.   B.'   was 
Booby,  and  he  transformed  the  matchless  Pamela  into  I^ady 
Booby.     But  the  parody,  thus  lightly  begun,  took  a  strong 
hold  upon  Fielding's  imagination.     The  characters  came  to 
life  under  his  hand.     Joseph  Andrews  developed  from  the 
pretty  milksop  that  the  author  had  at  first  intended  him  to  be, 
into  a  fine  manly  young  fellow,  resembling  his  sister  Pamela 
in  personal  beauty  only,  whom  it  was  impossible  to  confine 
to    the    ignoble    part    originally    designed    for    him.      The 
action  of  the  story  grew  brisk  and  the  interest  quickened. 
Other  characters   were   introduced,   chief   among   them  the 
immortal  Parson  Adams.     From  the  moment  when,  at  the 
end  of  the  second  chapter,  we  are  introduced  to  him  drinking 
a  cup  of  ale  in  Sir  Thomas  Booby's  kitchen  and  asking  Joseph 
'*  several  questions  concerning  religion,"   he  dominates  the 
story.     There  is  not  indeed  in  all  fiction  a  more  delightful 
parson  than  Parson  Adams.     He  is  own  brother  to  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  and  that  other  village  pastor  of  Goldsmith's  of 
whom  we  are  told  "  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 
"Mr.  Abraham  Adams/'   says  Fielding,   "  was  an  excellent 

Y  329 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  j 

scholar.     He  was  a  perfect  master  of  the  Greek  and  I/atinj 
languages ;   to  which  he  added  a  great  share  of  knowledge  inj 
the  Oriental  tongues;    and  could  read  and  translate  French, j 
Italian,  and  Spanish.     He  had  appHed  many  years  to  the  most' 
severe  study,  and  had  treasured  up  a  fund  of  learning  rarely! 
to  be  met  with  in  an  university.     He  was,  besides,  a  man  oi 
good  sense,  good  parts  and  good  nature  ;  but  was  at  the  same 
time  as  entirely  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  this  world  as  an  infant  i 
just  entered  into  it  could  possibly  be.     As  he  had  never  any; 
intention  to  deceive,  so  he  never  suspected  such  a  design  in; 
others.     He  was  generous,  friendly  and  brave  to  an  excess ;  j 
but  simplicity  was  his  characteristic.  .  .  .     His  virtue,  and; 
his  other  qualifications,  as  they  rendered  him  equal  to  his! 
office,  so  they  made  him  an  agreeable  and  valuable  companion, 
and  had  so  much  endeared  and  well  recommended  him  to  a  j 
bishop,  that  at  the  age  of  fifty  he  was  provided  with  a  hand-  j 
some  income  of  twenty- three  pounds  a  year  ;  which,  however,  ^ 
he  could  not  make  any  great  figure  with,  because  he  lived  in  a  ! 
dear  country,  and  was  a  little  encumbered  with  a  wife  and  six  i 
children."     He  sets  out,  with  nine  shillings  and  threepence  ' 
halfpenny  in  his  pocket,  on  a  journey  to  lyondon,  to  publish 
three  volumes  of  sermons,  but,  halfway  there,  he  discovers 
that  he  has  left  the  sermons  at  home,  and  contentedly  returns,  i 
reflecting,  "  This  disappointment  may  perhaps  be  intended  for 
my  good."     He  is  taken  in  by  every  plausible  rogue  he  meets  j 
upon  the  road  ;  but  he  has  a  valiant  spirit  and  lays  about  him  ] 
sturdily  with  his  famous  crabstick,  in  the  defence  of  his  fellow- 
travellers.     We  see  him  in  homely  guise  and  under  ludicrous 
conditions — leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  inn  gallery  smoking  his 
blackened  pipe,  "  a  nightcap  drawn  over  his  wig,  and  a  short 
greatcoat,  which  half  covered  his  cassock  '*  ;  or  rising  drenched 
from  the  tub  of  cold  water  to  which  a  practical  joke  on  the  part 
of  the  host  of  the  inn  has  consigned  him.     Yet  he  has  through- 
out a  certain  dignity  of  sweetness  of  which  nothing  can 
deprive  him,  and  is,  under  all  the  circumstances  of  his  life, 
charming  and  delightful. 
Next  to  Parson  Adams  comes  Mrs.  Slipslop,  I<ady  Booby's 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

waiting-maid.  She  is  "a  maiden  gentlewoman  of  about 
forty-five  years  of  age/'  whose  conversation,  like  that  of 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  exhibits  "  a  fine  derangement  of  epitaphs.'* 
"  Do  you  assinuate,"  she  says  to  Joseph,  "  that  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother  ?  I  don't  know  what  a  stripling 
may  think,  but  I  believe  a  man  would  refer  me  to  any  green- 
sickness silly  girl  whatsomdever." 

These  new  interests  and  new  characters  quickly  succeeded 
in  driving  from  Fielding's  mind  the  original  idea  with  which 
he  had  started  the  book.  After  the  first  few  chapters  it  is 
gradually  dropped,  and  we  hear  no  more  of  Pamela  until  she 
is  introduced  at  the  end  of  the  book  in  connexion  with  the 
marriage  of  her  brother  Joseph  (who  is  discovered  not  to  be 
her  brother)  to  the  beautiful  Fanny  (who  turns  out  to  be 
Pamela's  sister).  At  the  wedding  Pamela  so  far  forgets  herself 
as  to  join  with  her  husband  in  laughing  in  church,  and  is 
severely  and  publicly  rebuked  by  Parson  Adams. 

In  1742  Fielding  published  his  book,  under  the  title  of 
The  History  of  the  Adventures  of  Joseph  Andrews  and  his  friend 
Mr.  Abraham  Adams.  It  still  retained  enough  of  the  nature 
of  a  parody  to  cause  serious  annoyance  to  poor  Richardson, 
who,  unfortunately,  had  neither  the  greatness  of  mind  which 
would  enable  him  to  forgive  the  offence  nor  the  self-control 
which  would  serve  to  conceal  his  chagrin.  He  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  attempting  to  detract  from  Fielding's  praises,  and 
his  circle  of  adoring  ladies  agreed  with  him  in  regarding 
Joseph  Andrews  as  "  a  lewd  and  ungenerous  engraftment " 
upon  the  pure  and  perfect  growth  of  Pamela,  Fielding's  four 
sisters  were  included  in  the  company  of  Richardson's  admirers, 
and  must  have  suffered  considerable  embarrassment  through 
the  conflicting  claims  of  their  brother  and  the  idol  of  their 
worship.  In  Fielding's  generous  and  manly  nature  no  petty 
jealousy  could  find  a  place.  His  own  book,  though  it  was 
successful  beyond  his  hopes,  did  not  attain  to  an5rthing  like 
the  vogue  of  Pamela.  Its  importance  to  its  author  could  not, 
however,  be  measured  by  the  money  return  it  brought  him. 
Joseph  Andrews  had  shown  Fielding  the  direction  in  which  his 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ; 

great  powers  could  best  be  exercised.  It  had  turned  him  fromi 
weary  hack-work  to  labour  in  which  he  felt  he  had  found  his: 
true  means  of  expression.  \ 

We  cannot  here  trace  in  detail  the  subsequent  careers  ofi 
our  two  authors,  but  will  briefly  sum  up  the  most  important! 
events  in  each.  Both  Richardson  and  Fielding  went  on  with ; 
the  work  of  novel-writing  for  which  they  had,  almost  by: 
chance,  discovered  their  aptitude,  and  each  produced  works, 
far  surpassing  in  merit  their  first  efforts.  In  1748  Richardson  I 
produced  Clarissa  Harlowe,  which  is  by  most  critics  considered  j 
to  be  his  masterpiece.  He  followed  this,  in  1753,  by  The  j 
History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison.  During  the  last  seven  years  ; 
of  his  life  he  wrote  little,  and  published  nothing  except,  in  i 
1755,  a  Collection  of  Moral  and  Instructive  Sentiments  gathered  ; 
from  his  three  novels.  He  remained  the  idol  of  an  admiring 
circle  until  his  death  in  1761. 

Fielding,  after  the  publication  of  Joseph  Andrews,  went  on  i 
with  his  legal  and  journalistic  work.  His  fortunes  were  still  | 
very  low,  and  he  suffered  many  hardships.  His  wife  died  in  i 
1743.  In  1747  he  married  again,  and  in  1748  was  appointed  | 
a  justice  of  the  peace  for  Westminster.  In  the  next  year  | 
appeared  his  second  novel  Tom  Jones.  This  great  work  still  \ 
keeps  its  place  among  the  masterpieces  of  English  fiction.  I 
Like  Joseph  Andrews  it  is  disfigured  by  many  coarse  passages  \ 
which,  though  partly  due  to  the  public  taste  of  the  time,  • 
constitute  a  real  and  serious  blemish.  But  it  is,  withal,  a  manly,  j 
wise,  and  witty  book,  full  of  the  intense  enjoyment  of  life  and  • 
the  hatred  of  sham  and  of  cant  which  characterized  its  author,     j 

A  third  novel  entitled  Amelia  appeared  in  175 1.  By  this  ; 
time  Fielding's  health  was  faiHng.  A  period  of  severe  and  j 
incessant  work  following  upon  a  reckless  and  dissipated  youth  1 
had  broken  down  his  originally  fine  constitution.  In  1754,  j 
when  asthma,  jaundice  and  dropsy  had  brought  him  very  I 
near  death,  he  set  out  on  a  voyage  to  Lisbon,  in  the  hope  of  j 
recovering  his  health.  But  the  hope  was  vain.  He  died  at 
Lisbon,  on  October  8,  1754,  and  was  buried  in  the  English 
cemetery  of  that  city. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

JOHNSON'S    DICTIONARY:    THE 
LIVES    OF   THE    POETS 

IN  the  year  1737  there  travelled  up  to  lyondon  from  their 
native  town  of  Lichfield,  a  big,  burly  young  man,  twenty- 
eight  years  old,  with    a    younger,  slighter  companion, 
whose  mobile,  expressive  face  and  quick  movements  formed  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  heavy  strength  which  marked  both  the 
countenance  and  gait  of  the  other.     The  elder  traveller  was, 
indeed,  a  queer,  uncouth  figure.     His  huge  form  was  clad  in 
garments  that  were  soiled  and  torn  and  arranged  in  slovenly 
fashion.     His  face  was  disfigured  by  the  disease  known  as  the 
king's  evil,  and  his  short-sighted,  peering  eyes  gave  the  final 
grotesque  touch  to  a  countenance  which  might,  from  the 
regularity  of  its  features  and  from  its  look  of  massive  strength, 
have  been  dignified  and  impressive.     Ever  and  again  the  great 
limbs  twitched  convulsively,  and  the  powerful  hands  were 
raised  in  awkward  gesticulations,  so  that  passers-by  turned  to 
look  at  the  curious  figure  and  laughed  as  they  went  on  their 
way.     The  two  travellers  had  come  to  I^ondon  to  seek  their 
fortunes,  with  a  few  shillings  and  two  or  three  letters  of 
introduction  in  their  pockets.     The  elder  had  also  as  capital 
three  acts  of  a  tragedy  he  had  written,  called  Irene,  a  store  of 
classical  learning,  and  some  small  literary  experience.     The 
younger  had  his  mobile  face,  great  powers  of  mimicry,  and 
strong  dramatic  talent. 

lyittle  good  came  from  the  letters  of  introduction,  except 
that  they  enabled  the  two  to  raise  a  joint  loan  of  five  pounds 
for  immediate  necessities.  Then  began  the  search  for  a  means 
of  livelihood.    The  younger  man  applied  for  employment  at 

333 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  theatres,  where  he  had  some  friends,  and  here  his  wonderful 
talent  was  soon  recognized,  so  that  he  rose  rapidly  and  became 
known  to  the  world  as  the  great  actor  David  Garrick.  The 
elder  man  found  more  difficulty ;  and  his  need  was  even 
greater  than  his  friend's,  for  he  had  left  behind  him  at  lyichfield 
a  wife  for  whom  he  wished  to  make  a  home.  He  offered  his 
services  to  many  booksellers,  but  obtained  only  the  scantiest 
and  worst-paid  hack-work.  He  lodged  in  a  wretched  garret, 
and  dined  at  the  cheapest  of  the  miserable  taverns 
that  were  to  be  found  in  the  poorest  quarter  of  lyondon. 
Sometimes  even  these  were  beyond  his  reach,  and  then, 
cold  and  hungry,  he  walked  all  night  about  the  dark  and 
empty  streets,  or  lay  down  in  some  corner  among  the  city's 
beggars  and  thieves.  Such  were  the  experiences  which 
marked  the  early  attempts  of  Samuel  Johnson  to  gain  a  living 
by  his  pen. 

It  was  only  very  gradually  that  things  improved.  In 
1738  Johnson  managed  to  publish  his  poem  of  London, 
which  brought  him  to  the  notice  of  Pope  and  some  other 
celebrated  men.  The  merit  of  the  poem  was  recognized, 
and  some  attempts  were  made  to  obtain  for  Johnson  a 
position  which  would  afford  him  a  chance  of  earning  an 
adequate  income,  but  they  came  to  nothing,  and  the  only 
reward  that  Johnson  received  was  the  ten  guineas  paid  him  by 
his  bookseller. 

Nearly  ten  more  years  passed  in  ill-paid  and  arduous  toil  as 
a  bookseller's  hack.  Johnson  began  to  be  known  as  a  man 
whose  work  had  a  scholarly  quality,  but  little  credit  was  to  be 
gained  from  the  composition  of  sermons,  prefaces,  indexes  and 
advertisements,  on  which  he  was  mainly  occupied.  One  day, 
in  1747,  he  was  sitting  in  the  shop  of  a  bookseller  named 
Robert  Dodsley,  and  talking  over  various  literary  plans. 
"  I  believe,"  said  Dodsley,  '*  that  a  dictionary  of  the  English 
language  is  a  work  that  is  greatly  needed,  and  one  which 
would  be  well  received  by  the  public."  Johnson  considered 
the  suggestion.  "  I  believe,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I 
shall  not  undertake  it."    The  idea  of  compiling  a  dictionary 

33-^ 


JOHNSON'S    DICTIONARY 

liad  occurred  to  him  before,  but  the  words  of  the  bookseller 
gave  definiteness  to  what  had  been  only  a  vaguely  conceived 
plan.  Finally  he  resolved  that  he  would  undertake  the  work. 
At  Dodsley's  suggestion  he  wrote  to  I^ord  Chesterfield,  Secretary 
of  State,  sending  an  outline  of  his  scheme,  in  the  hope  of 
receiving  the  great  man*s  patronage. 

Preliminary  arrangements  were  soon  completed.  Johnson 
was  to  receive  fifteen  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds  for 
the  work,  which  he  expected  to  finish  in  three  years.  Out  of 
this  he  would  have  to  pay  several  assistants.  The  large 
amount  of  drudgery  involved  was  very  distasteful  to  him,  for 
he  was  constitutionally  indolent,  and  hated  sustained  labour. 
Seven  years  of  this  toil  were  before  him,  for  his  dictionary  was 
not  finished  until  1755.  In  his  preface  he  records  his  views 
concerning  the  work  which  had  occupied  him  for  so  long. 
"  Those  who  toil  at  the  lower  employments  of  life,"  he  says, 
"  miss  the  rewards  which  attend  on  the  higher  branches  of 
industry.  Among  these  unhappy  mortals  is  the  writer  of 
dictionaries,  whom  mankind  have  considered,  not  as  the  pupil, 
but  the  slave  of  science,  the  pioneer  of  literature,  doomed  only 
to  remove  rubbish  and  clear  obstructions  from  the  paths 
through  which  lyearning  and  Genius  press  forward  to  conquest 
and  glory,  without  bestowing  a  smile  on  the  humble  drudge 
that  facilitates  their  progress."  In  the  Dictionary  itself  he 
defines  a  lexicographer  as  "  a  harmless  drudge,  that  busies 
himself  in  tracing  the  original  and  detailing  the  significance  of 
words."  In  Johnson's  day  etymology,  in  a  scientific  sense,  was 
unknown,  and  consequently  we  shall  not  expect  to  find  him 
attempting  to  trace  out  the  historical  processes  by  which  the 
language  has  been  developed.  He  contents  himself  with 
making  a  collection  of  the  words  it  contains,  defining  the 
meaning  of  these,  and  adding  illustrative  quotations.  Where 
the  etymology  is  obvious,  or  well  known,  he  gives  it ;  where 
it  is  unknown,  he  sometimes  makes  a  whimsical  guess.  But 
the  chief  feature  of  his  dictionary  is  its  illustrative  passages. 
"  When  first  I  collected  these  authorities,"  he  says,  *'  I  was 
desirous  that  every  quotation  should  be  useful  to  some  other 

335 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

end  than  the  illustration  of  a  word  :  I  therefore  extracted 
from  pliilosophers  principles  of  science,  from  historians  re- 
markable facts ;  from  chymists  complete  processes ;  from 
divines  striking  exhortations  and  from  poets  beautiful  descrip- 
tions/' Before  long,  however,  he  found  that  he  was  "  forced 
to  reduce  his  transcripts  very  often  to  clusters  of  words  in 
which  scarcely  any  meaning  is  retained."  "  Some  passages," 
he  says,  "  I  have  yet  spared,  which  may  relieve  the  labour  of 
verbal  searches,  and  intersperse  with  verdure  of  flowers  the 
dusty  deserts  of  barren  philology." 

As  a  rule  Johnson's  definitions  are  logical  and  accurate. 
Some  are  rather  amusingly  coloured  by  his  political  prejudices. 
A  pension,  he  says,  is  **  an  allowance  made  to  anyone  without 
an  equivalent.  In  England  it  is  generally  understood  to  mean 
pay  given  to  a  state-hireling  for  treason  to  his  country." 
Excise  he  defines  as  "  a  hateful  tax  levied  upon  commodities, 
and  adjudged,  not  by  the  common  judges  of  property,  but 
wretches  hired  by  those  to  whom  excise  is  paid."  With 
regard  to  the  orthography  of  the  words  he  says,  **  I  have 
endeavoured  to  proceed  with  a  scholar's  reverence  for  antiquity, 
and  a  grammarian's  regard  to  the  genius  of  our  tongue  "  ;  and 
he  adds,  "  I  am  not  yet  so  lost  in  lexicography  as  to  forget 
that  words  are  the  daughters  of  earth,  and  that  things  are  the 
sons  of  heaven." 

*'  The  English  dictionary,"  he  says  in  conclusion,  "  was 
written  with  little  assistance  of  the  learned,  and  without  any 
patronage  of  the  great ;  not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of  retirement, 
or  under  the  shelter  of  academick  bowers,  but  amidst  incon- 
venience and  distraction,  in  sickness  and  in  sorrow.  ...  I 
have  protracted  my  work  till  most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to 
please  have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and  miscarriage  are 
empty  sounds.  I  therefore  dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquillity, 
having  little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise." 

The  above  extracts  from  the  Preface  to  the  Dictionary 
illustrate  the  English  style  to  which,  by  1755,  Johnson  had 
attained.  There  is,  however,  another  piece  of  prose  writing, 
the  most  famous  and  widely  known  of  all  his  compositions, 

33^ 


JOHNSON'S    DICTIONARY 

which  is  always  associated  with  the  pubhcation  of  the  dic- 
tionary. This  is  the  celebrated  letter  to  I^ord  Chesterfield. 
Chesterfield,  it  seems,  had  given  him  some  hopes  of  help  and 
patronage,  but  these  had  not  been  fulfilled.  When  the 
Dictionary  was  on  the  eve  of  publication,  and  was  beginning 
to  be  talked  about,  it  apparently  occurred  to  the  noble  lord 
that  the  dedication  of  such  a  work  to  himself  would  add  to  his 
importance  as  a  patron  of  literature.  He  therefore  wrote  two 
articles,  which  were  published  in  The  World,  a  magazine  which 
circulated  among  men  of  fashion.  In  these  he  set  forward  the 
need  of  a  dictionary,  and  paid  to  Johnson  various  compliments 
upon  his  learning  and  literary  ability.  But  Johnson  quickly 
saw  through  the  manoeuvre,  and  his  reply  to  it  was  the 
immortal  letter.     We  will  quote  two  paragraphs  from  this  : 

"  Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed,  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  during 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties 
of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last 
to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one 
word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favour.  Such  treat- 
ment I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before.  .  .  . 

"  Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern 
on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice 
which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours,  had  it 
been  early,  had  been  kind  ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am 
indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot 
impart  it ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is 
no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no 
benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public 
should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence 
has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself." 

The  sturdy  independence  of  Johnson's  spirit,  his  powers  of 
irony,  and  the  stately,  measured  periods  he  loved  to  use,  are 
all  illustrated  in  this  famous  letter.  The  melancholy  of  its 
tone  we  have  seen  repeated  in  the  closing  passage  of  the 
Preface.    With  Johnson  melancholy  was  constitutional,  but 

337 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  had,  moreover,  at  this  time,  heavy  cause  for  sadness.  In 
March  1752,  his  wife,  who  had  joined  him  in  lyondon  some 
time  previously,  had  died.  From  this  blow  Johnson  never 
fully  recovered.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  twenty  years  older  than 
her  husband ;  she  was,  Garrick  tells  us,  very  fat,  her  cheeks 
were  covered  with  rouge,  her  dress  was  tawdry,  her  manners 
affected  and  unpleasing.  Yet  Johnson  loved  her  tenderly. 
To  his  short-sighted  eyes  she  was  beautiful,  and  to  the  end  of 
his  life  he  mourned  his  '  dear  Tetty,'  and  kept  the  anniversary 
of  her  death  with  fasting  and  prayer.  "  This  is  the  day,"  he 
wrote,  when  his  own  life  was  rapidly  drawing  to  a  close,  "  on 
which,  in  1752,  dear  Tetty  died.  I  have  now  uttered  a  prayer 
of  repentance  and  contrition ;  perhaps  Tetty  knows  that  I 
prayed  for  her.  Perhaps  Tetty  is  now  praying  for  me.  God 
help  me.  Thou,  God,  art  merciful,  hear  my  prayers  and 
enable  me  to  trust  in  Thee." 

But  in  spite  of  this  great  and  natural  despondency  the  most 
prosperous,  and  probably  the  happiest  part  of  Johnson's  life 
was,  in  1755,  yet  to  come.  He  was  forty-six  years  old,  strong 
and  vigorous  in  body  and  intellect.  His  material  circum- 
stances had  improved,  and  were  still  improving.  His  fame  as 
a  writer  already  stood  higher  than  that  of  any  man  of  his  day, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  be  known  for  those  conversational 
powers  to  which,  almost  more  than  to  his  writings,  he  owes  his 
fame.  In  1749  he  had  published  his  poem.  The  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes.  In  the  same  year,  through  the  good  offices 
of  his  old  friend,  Garrick,  his  tragedy,  Irene,  had  been  produced 
at  Drury  I^ane,  and  though,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a  failure,  it 
had  brought  Johnson  a  substantial  sum  of  money  and  some 
increase  of  reputation.  From  March  1750  to  March  1752  he 
was  engaged  on  The  Rambler,  a  paper  published  twice  a  week, 
and  for  each  number  he  received  two  guineas.  Easier  circum- 
stances had  developed  his  social  tendencies,  which  in  certain 
directions  were  strong.  For  fashionable  society  Johnson  was 
altogether  unfitted.  His  person  was  awkward,  his  dress 
slovenly ;  the  convulsive  twitchings  and  swayings  which 
resulted  from  natural  infirmity  and  the  uncouth  habits  formed 

338 


A 


■^  "  :-i» 


Dr.  Johnson  in  the  Hebrides 


338 


JOHNSON'S    DICTIONARY 

during  the  years  spent  in  extreme  poverty,  made  him  a 
ludicrous,  and,  in  some  eyes,  a  disgusting  figure.  lyord 
Chesterfield  called  him  "  a  respectable  Hottentot,  who  throws 
his  meat  anywhere  but  down  his  throat."  "  He  laughs,"  said 
Tom  Davies,  "  like  a  rhinoceros."  But  in  a  company  of 
congenial  friends  Johnson  shone.  He  was,  to  use  the  word 
he  himself  invented,  a  "  clubbable  "  man.  The  ordinary  chit- 
chat of  society  he  despised,  but  he  loved  to  meet  his  friends  in 
the  parlour  of  a  tavern,  and  "  fold  his  legs  and  have  his  talk 
out."  As  early  as  1749  he  had  formed  a  club  which  met  each 
week  at  a  "  famous  beef -steak  house  "  in  Ivy  I^ane.  This,  in 
1764,  was  superseded  by  another  known  in  literary  history  as 
"The  Club,"  wliich  met  at  the  Turk's  Head,  Gerrard  Street, 
Soho.  To  this  club  belonged  Samuel  Johnson,  Oliver  Gold- 
smith, Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Edmund  Burke,  David  Garrick, 
Edward  Gibbon,  James  Boswell,  and  many  other  famous  men 
of  the  period.  It  is  to  the  last-named  member,  a  young 
Scottish  laird  whose  admiration  for  Johnson  was  the  leading 
passion  of  his  life,  that  we  owe  the  full  knowledge  we  possess 
of  the  proceedings  of  this  club.  In  his  Life  of  Johnson  Boswell 
records  in  the  utmost  detail  the  sayings  and  doings  of  his  idol, 
so  that  we  learn  to  know  the  great  literary  dictator  as  a 
familiar  friend.  We  know  all  about  his  brusque,  dictatorial 
manner,  and  the  crushing  blows  he  dealt  his  conversational 
opponents.  We  know,  too,  something  about  his  kind  and 
tender  heart,  and  the  way  in  which  he  made  his  house  a  refuge 
for  various  waifs  and  strays  who,  without  his  help,  would 
have  been  almost  destitute. 

In  1759  he  published  Rasselas,  a  moral  story  with  an 
Oriental  setting.  In  1762  a  pension  of  ^^300  was  offered  to 
him  by  George  III.  Johnson  naturally  hesitated  as  to  whether, 
after  the  definition  that  he  had  given  in  his  Dictionary,  he 
could  himself  become  a  pensioner  without  injury  to  his  self- 
respect.  His  scruples  were  set  at  rest  by  the  assurance  that 
the  pension  was  bestowed  not  dn  account  of  anything  he  was 
expected  to  do,  but  as  a  reward  for  what  he  had  already  done  ; 
and  it  was  accepted. 

339 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

After  Johnson  received  his  pension  he  wrote  Uttle. 
He  worked  hard  only  when  his  bread  depended  upon  his 
efforts.  During  his  later  years  he  gave  himself  up  almost 
entirely  to  the  particular  kind  of  social  intercourse  that  he 
loved,  and  cultivated  conversation  as  a  fine  art.  He  was 
however,  to  produce  one  more  great  work.  In  1777  a  syndicate 
of  booksellers  who  were  planning  an  edition  of  the  English 
Poets,  asked  him  if  he  would  furnish  a  short  life  of  each  poet, 
to  form  a  kind  of  preface.  He  was  to  name  his  own  terms. 
Johnson  agreed,  and  asked  two  hundred  guineas  for  his  work. 
Had  he  asked  a  thousand,  his  biographer  tells  us,  it  would 
have  been  willingly  given.  The  Lives  of  the  Poets,  which  was 
the  outcome  of  this  negotiation,  is  Johnson's  finest  work.  His 
criticisms  are,  in  most  cases,  just,  sound,  and  independent. 
In  a  few  instances  he  was  misled  by  prejudice,  as  in  his  famous 
criticism  of  Milton's  Lycidas.  "  One  of  the  poems  on  which 
much  praise  has  been  bestowed,"  he  says,  "  is  Lycidas  ;  of 
which  the  diction  is  harsh,  the  rhymes  uncertain,  and  the 
numbers  unpleasing.  ...  In  this  poem  there  is  no  nature, 
for  there  is  no  truth ;  there  is  no  art,  for  there  is  nothing 
new.  Its  form  is  that  of  a  pastoral,  easy,  vulgar,  and  there- 
fore disgusting;  whatever  images  it  can  supply  are  easily 
exhausted,  and  its  inherent  improbability  always  forces 
dissatisfaction  on  the  mind.  When  Cowley  tells  of  Hervey 
that  they  studied  together,  it  is  easy  to  suppose  how  much  he 
must  miss  the  companion  of  his  labours  and  the  partner  of  his 
discoveries  ;  but  what  image  of  tenderness  can  be  excited  by 
these  lines  ? — 

We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  svdtry  horn. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 

We  know  that  they  never  drove  afield,  and  had  no  flocks  to 
batten ;  and  though  it  be  allowed  that  the  representation 
may  be  allegorical,  the  true  meaning  is  so  uncertain  and  remote 
that  it  is  never  sought,  because  it  cannot  be  known  when  it  is 
found." 

Johnson,  as  is  easily  seen,  had  little  appreciation  of  the 

340 


THE    LIVES    OF    THE    POETS 

imaginative  element  in  poetry  and  no  ear  for  the  subtler 
harmonies  of  verse.  His  first  requirement  of  poetry  as  well 
as  of  prose  was  that  it  should  be  good  sense.  He  saw  little 
difference  between  poetry  and  prose  except  with  regard  to 
metre  and  rhyme.  He  belonged  to  the  school  of  Dry  den  and 
Pope,  and  the  parallel  that  he  draws  between  these  two  poets 
in  his  Life  of  Pope  shows  him  perhaps  at  his  best.  We  will 
quote  a  part  of  this  famous  passage  :  "  Dry  den  knew  more  of 
man  in  his  general  nature,  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The 
notions  of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation  ; 
and  those  of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity 
in  the  knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of 
Pope.  .  .  .  The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied  ; 
that  of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  observes  the 
motions  of  his  own  mind  ;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his 
own  rules  of  composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement 
and  rapid ;  Pope  is  always  smooth,  uniform  and  gentle. 
Dryden's  page  is  a  natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and 
diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation ; 
Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe  and  levelled  by 
the  roller." 

The  Lives  of  the  Poets  was  finished  in  1781,  and  after  this 
Johnson  wrote  no  more.  He  still  reigned  as  the  great  dictator 
in  matters  literary.  All  the  other  writers  of  the  day  looked 
upon  his  approval  as  certifying  the  merit  of  their  work,  and 
dreaded  his  censure.  Thin-skinned  poets  shrank  from  the 
rough  and  biting  criticisms  which  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
bestow,  but  there  were  many  who  had  cause  to  bless  his  kindly 
help.  He  reigned,  like  his  seventeenth-century  namesake,  the 
"  great  Ben  "  by  virtue  of  his  robust  and  manly  nature,  his 
kind  heart  and  his  vigorous  genius  ;  and  when  he  died,  in 
1784,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  few  men  could  have  been 
mourned  more  sincerely  or  missed  more  acutely. 

"  The  names  of  many  greater  writers,"  says  Sir  I^slie 
Stephen,  "  are  inscribed  upon  the  walls  of  Westminster  Abbey  ; 
but  scarcely  anyone  lies  there  whose  heart  was  more  acutely 
responsive  during  life  to  the  deepest  and  tenderest  of  human 

341 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

emotions.  In  visiting  that  strange  gathering  of  departed 
heroes  and  statesmen  and  philanthropists  and  poets,  there  are 
many  whose  words  and  deeds  have  a  far  greater  influence 
upon  our  imaginations  ;  but  there  are  very  few  whom,  when 
all  has  been  said,  we  can  love  so  heartily  as  Samuel  Johnson.*' 


342 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE   VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD 

NEEDY  adventurers  from  all  parts  of  the  three  king- 
doms drifted  up  to  lyondon  as  naturally  in  the  eight- 
eenth century  as  at  the  present  day  :  and  then,  as 
now,  the  incoming  stream  brought  with  it,  at  rare  intervals,  a 
man  of  genius.  We  have  seen  how,  in  1737,  Johnson  and 
Garrick  came  up  from  their  homes  in  Staffordshire,  and  how 
some  twelve  years  earlier,  Scotland  had  sent  up  her  penniless 
poet,  James  Thomson,  author  of  The  Seasons.  But  it  was 
Ireland  that  gave  to  us  the  poorest,  the  most  lovable,  and  the 
most  beloved  of  all  this  ragged  company ;  and  his  name  was 
Oliver  Goldsmith.  » 

At  the  time  when  Johnson  left  Lichfield,  Oliver  Goldsmith 
was  an  awkward,  ugly  little  boy,  eight  years  old,  living  at  the 
pretty  parsonage  house  which  belonged  to  the  quaint  Irish 
village  of  Lissoy.  Everybody  laughed  at  him  for  his  comical 
face  and  his  simple  manners,  and  many  considered  him  "  little 
better  than  a  fool  '* ;  yet  everybody  loved  him  for  his  tender 
heart  and  his  merry  spirit.  Of  his  schooldays  we  hear  the 
same  story.  He  was  stupid  at  his  lessons  and  clumsy  in  his 
play,  and  he  gained  affection  and  ridicule  in  almost  equal 
measure.  When  he  was  sixteen  years  old  he  left  school, 
and  then  came  the  question,  what  was  to  be  done  with  him  ? 
His  father  was  only  a  poor  Irish  minister,  and  had  neither 
money  nor  interest  to  push  the  fortunes  of  this,  the  most 
unpromising  of  all  his  six  children.  There  was,  however,  an 
uncle,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Contarine,  who  loved  the  lad  and 
wished  to  help  him.  Oliver,  he  said,  must  go  to  college.  But 
his  father  was  not  able  to  maintain  him  there,  except  as  a 

343 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

sizar,  and  Master  Oliver's  pride  rebelled  against  the  indignity  | 
of  such  a  position.  At  last,  however,  his  uncle  persuaded  him  , 
that  such  ideas  were  both  wrong  and  foolish,  and  in  June  , 
1744  Goldsmith  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  ■ 

He  remained  at  the  university  for  five  years.  During  the  ' 
whole  time  his  allowance  was  of  the  scantiest,  and  when,  in  1 
1747,  his  father  died,  matters  became  even  worse  than  before.  I 
He  had  nothing  to  depend  on  save  the  supplies  which  his  j 
uncle  Contarine  managed  to  send  him.  When  these  failed  he  ' 
begged  a  loan  from  a  friend,  or  pawned  some  of  his  poor  1 
clothes,  or  earned  five  shillings  by  writing  a  ballad,  which  was  ■ 
sung  in  the  streets  and  sold  for  a  penny  a  copy.  He  studied  \ 
as  little  as  he  possibly  could,  and  was  so  idle,  careless  and  ! 
riotous  in  his  behaviour  that  he  was  constantly  in  disgrace. 
Once  he  ran  away  from  the  university,  and  made  his  way  ! 
home,  but  his  elder  brother  persuaded  him  to  go  back.  Finally,  ] 
in  1749,  Goldsmith,  though  his  name  stood  at  the  bottom  of  • 
the  list,  succeeded  in  gaining  his  degree,  and  so  brought  his ' 
college  career  to  a  close. 

He  went  back  to  his  mother's  house  at  lyissoy,  and  settled  - 
contentedly  down  to  a  life  of  idleness.  During  the  day  he  - 
lounged  about  the  village,  or  helped  his  mother  and  his  brother  , 
in  small  matters,  and  when  the  evening  came  he  made  his  way  i 
to  the  village  inn  where  he  drank  and  sang  with  the  humble  ; 
company  assembled  there.  To  his  careless,  easy  nature  the  i 
thought  of  what  was  to  become  of  him  in  the  future  gave  no 
concern,  but  his  family  began  to  be  anxious.  Oliver  was  now  \ 
twenty-one,  and  bid  fair  to  turn  out  a  ne'er-do-well.  Some- 
thing must  be  done.  They  persuaded  him  to  try  to  enter  the  ] 
Church  as  a  minister,  but,  for  some  reason  or  other  the  Bishop  ; 
refused  his  application.  They  found  him  a  post  as  a  tutor  but  1 
he  quarrelled  with  his  patron,  and  returned  home.  Then  he  ; 
set  out,  with  the  small  sum  of  money  he  had  earned  in  his  | 
pocket,  to  seek  his  fortune,  but  he  soon  came  back  without ' 
the  money,  and  with  a  marvellous  story  to  account  for  his  ' 
failure.  He  next  thought  he  would  like  to  try  the  legal  pro- 
fession, and  his  kind  uncle  Contarine  gave  him  fifty  pounds ' 

344  ; 


•3  ^ 
o 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

with  which  to  go  to  I^ondon  and  start  on  his  career.  Gold- 
smith, however,  did  not  get  farther  than  Dublin :  there  he 
gambled  away  the  fifty  pounds,  and  returned  once  more  to 
his  friends.  Again  he  was  forgiven,  and  his  next  idea  was  to 
become  a  doctor.  Once  more  his  uncle  provided  him  with 
funds,  and  in  1752  Goldsmith  left  for  Edinburgh.  He  never 
saw  Ireland  again. 

In  Edinburgh  he  lived  for  about  eighteen  months,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time  wrote  to  his  uncle  concerning  a  project 
of  proceeding  to  Paris  and  continuing  his  studies  at  the 
university  of  that  city.  His  uncle  sent  him  twenty  pounds 
and  he  started  for  the  Continent,  but,  changing  his  mind, 
decided  to  go  to  I^eyden,  where  a  famous  medical  professor 
was  lecturing.  The  lectures  did  not  come  up  to  Goldsmith's 
expectations,  or.  which  is  more  probable,  his  zeal  for  medical 
study  declined.  He  left  I^eyden  with  a  guinea  in  his  pocket, 
and  started  on  a  tour  through  Europe.  Of  this  strange  journey 
we  know  very  little,  but  what  seems  certain  is  that  it  was  a 
kind  of  vagabond's  tramp,  in  which  subsistence  was  from  hand 
to  mouth,  and  no  provision  was  ever  made  for  the  morrow. 
Whether,  as  Boswell  tells  us,  he  '  disputed  *  his  way  through 
Europe  :  whether,  like  the  Vicar's  son  in  his  famous  stor>%  he 
sang,  and  played  on  the  flute  to  the  peasants  for  his  bread  and 
his  night's  lodging ;  whether,  as  is  more  probable,  he  begged 
from  the  charitable  and  did  odd  jobs  for  those  who  would  pay 
for  them,  still  remains  a  question.  From  one  ot  the  Continental 
Universities  it  seems  fairly  certain  that  he  gained  a  degree, 
but  we  do  not  know  from  which.  It  is  clear  that  he  visited 
Antwerp,  Brussels  and  other  towns  in  Flanders,  that  he  reached 
Switzerland,  crossed  the  Alps  into  Italy,  and  returned  through 
France.  On  February  i,  1756,  he  landed  at  Dover,  without 
a  penny  in  his  pocket.  Once  more  he  was  obliged  to  call  upon 
his  wits  to  pay  his  travelling  expenses,  and  by  this  method  of 
journeying  he  was  a  fortnight  on  the  road  to  I^ondon.  He 
reached  it  at  last,  and  began,  as  so  many  men  had  done  before 
him,  a  struggle  for  existence  in  the  great  city. 

For  him  the  struggle  w^as  harder  than  it  had  been  for  Johnson, 

z  345 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ■ 

though  perhaps  it  was  not  so  bitter ;   for  if  he  was  without 
Johnson's  sturdy  fighting  power,  he  had  his  own  Irish  versa- 
tility and  easy  hopefulness.     It  is  difficult,  however,  to  imagine  i 
how  he  managed  to  exist  during  those  first  terrible  months.  \ 
In  after  days  he  was  persistently  silent  concerning  this  period  | 
of  his  life,  and  only  by  a  few  half -joking,  casual  allusions  gave  I 
any  hint  of  his  sufferings.     "  When  I  lived  among  the  beggars  j 
in  Axe  Lane,"  he  once  said  to  a  mixed  company  of  people,  i 
who  were  much  amazed  and  inclined  to  regard  the  remark  as  i 
a  joke.    But  it  is  probable  that  Goldsmith  was  speaking  sad  ■ 
and  sober  truth.     When  we  first  hear  of  him  he  was  working  ; 
in  a  chemist's  shop ;   then  we  meet  him  as  a  doctor,  dressed  J 
in  a  pitifully  old  green  and  gold  coat,  physicking  the  poor  of  ] 
Bankside.     For  a  time  he  was  employed  as  a  corrector  of  the  \ 
press  in  the  printing  establishment  of  Mr.  Samuel  Richardson, ' 
and  ventured  to  show  to  the  great  moraUst  a  tragedy  he  had  ; 
written.     But  Richardson  was  scarcely  the  man  to  recognize  j 
genius  in  rags,  and,  moreover,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  Gold-  j 
smith  writing  a  good  tragedy.    We  find  him  next  at  Peckham,  j 
as  usher  in  a  school  kept  by  a  certain  Dr.  Milner,  and  here  he 
seems  to  have  been  treated  with  great  kindness,  and  to  have 
been  fairly  happy  and  contented.    One  day  a  bookseller  named 
Griffiths  dined  at  Dr.  Milner's  table,  and  something  in  the 
queer,  ungainly  usher's  conversation,  or  in  the  tales  that  were 
told  about  him  made  the  man  of  business  believe  that  he  ] 
had  stumbled  upon  a  hidden  literary   genius.     He   induced  t 
Goldsmith  to  leave  his  employment,  and  turn  hack-writer.  : 
Goldsmith  removed  to  Griffiths'  house  in  Paternoster  Row,  • 
where  he  was  to  receive  board,  lodging  and  a  small  salary  in  ' 
return  for  his  services.     There,  in  company  with  five,  or  six  \ 
others,  hired  on  similar  terms,  he  sat  down  every  day  to  write, 
for  a  certain  fixed  number  of  hours,   articles  for   Griffiths'  , 
Monthly  Review.     After  this  humble  and  not  very  pleasant  ; 
fashion  did  Goldsmith  begin  his  literary  career.  ^ 

Such  forced  and  regular  labour  was  not,  however,  to  his  I 
taste.  His  engagement  had  been  for  a  year,  but  at  the  end  ; 
of  five  months  he  quarrelled  with  Griffiths,  and  removed  to  a  ! 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

garret  in  Fleet  Street.  For  a  time  he  struggled  on  as  a  mis- 
cellaneous hack-writer.  Then  he  tried  Dr.  Milner's  once  more, 
but  soon  drifted  back  to  literature.  From  1758  to  1760  he 
lived  in  Green  Arbour  Court,  Old  Bailey.  Here  he  seems  to 
have  applied  himself  seriously  to  his  work.  He  set  about 
that  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe 
which  is  the  first  of  his  important  works.  Writing  in  his 
miserable  garret,  amid  the  squalor  and  filth  of  a  city  slum, 
Goldsmith's  thoughts  went  back  longingly  to  his  dear  country 
of  Ireland,  and  the  happy  village  of  Ivissoy  where  his  boyhood 
had  been  spent.  "  Whether  I  eat  or  starve,"  he  wrote  to  his 
sister's  husband,  who  still  Hved  at  I^issoy,  "  live  in  a  first  floor, 
or  four  pair  of  stairs  high,  I  still  remember  my  Irish  friends 
with  pleasure  ;  nay,  my  very  country  comes  in  for  a  share  of 
my  affection."  He  vows  he  would  rather  hear  Johnny  Arm- 
strong's  Last  Good  Night  sung  at  a  Ivissoy  fireside  than  the 
finest  efforts  of  a  great  singer,  and  tells  how,  when  he  cUmbs 
Hampstead  Hill  and  looks  over  the  fine  prospect,  he  can  think 
only  of  that  dearer  scene  he  has  looked  on  so  many  times  from 
the  little  mount  at  lyissoy  Gate.  His  hopefulness  was  begin- 
ning to  give  way,  under  long-continued  poverty  and  distress  ; 
his  health,  too,  was  suffering.  "  It  gives  me  some  pain,"  he 
wrote  to  his  brother  Henry,  "  to  think  I  am  almost  beginning 
the  world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one.  Though  I  never  had  a 
day's  illness  since  I  saw  you,  I  am  not  that  strong  active  man 
you  once  knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  conceive  how  much 
eight  years  of  disappointment,  anguish,  and  study,  have  worn 
me  down.  .  .  .  Imagine  to  yourself  a  pale  melancholy  visage, 
with  two  great  wrinkles  before  the  eyebrows,  with  an  eye 
disgustingly  severe,  and  a  big  wig  ;  and  you  have  a  perfect 
picture  of  my  present  appearance.  ...  I  can  neither  laugh 
nor  drink  ;  have  contracted  a  hesitating,  disagreeable  manner 
of  speaking,  and  a  visage  that  looks  ill-nature  itself  ;  in  short, 
I  have  thought  myself  into  a  settled  melancholy,  and  an  utter 
disgust  of  all  that  life  brings  with  it." 

Poor  Goldsmith  !    He  had  tired  out  the  patience  of  friends 
who  had  treated  him  with  far  more  forbearance  than  he  had 

347 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ' 

deserved.  Yet  their  hearts  must  have  ached  as  they  read" 
these  piteous  letters  from  their  poor  exile.  Oliver,  they; 
perhaps  said  to  one  another,  had  indeed  been  idle,  careless  and  i 
ungrateful.  Yet  he  had  a  warm  heart,  and  a  winning  way; 
with  him,  and  was  always  ready  to  do  a  poor  creature  a  kind-  \ 
ness,  and  to  share  his  last  sixpence  with  a  friend.  It  was  a ' 
pity  he  had  ever  left  old  Ireland. 

Yet  at  this  time  the  worst  was  over,  and  brighter  days  were 
coming  for  the  poor  ne'er-do-well.  His  Enquiry  brought; 
him  considerable  reputation,  and  better-paid  work.  Ini 
October  1759  he  became  sole  contributor  to  The  Bee,  a  paper  1 
on  the  model  of  Addison's  Spectator,  published  by  a  bookseller  \ 
of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  in  this  paper  appeared  some  of ' 
his  most  delightful  essays.  In  1760  he  removed  to  respectable  j 
lodgings  in  Wine  Office  Court,  Fleet  Street,  and  was  sought  j 
after  by  various  booksellers.  Much  of  his  work  was  still  hack-  ^ 
work,  but  it  brought  him  in  a  fairly  comfortable  income,  and  ; 
enabled  him  to  move  in  better  society.  Soon  he  began  to  | 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  famous  literary  men  of  the  day. ; 
We  do  not  know  the  date  of  his  first  introduction  to  Johnson,  ! 
but  we  know  that  Johnson  came  to  supper  with  him  at  Wine  i 
Office  Court  on  May  31,  1761.  The  two  men,  different  as  ! 
they  were  in  habits  and  disposition,  became  attached  friends.  1 
Goldsmith's  sensitive  nature  often  suffered  severely  under  1 
Johnson's  rough  treatment,  and  Johnson  was  often  annoyed  , 
at  Goldsmith's  f ooHshness  and  childish  vanity.  But  the  sincere  i 
affection  which  each  had  for  the  other  held  their  friendship  ' 
firm.  1 

Goldsmith  was  now  established  as  a  writer,  and  was  earning  ; 
an  income  of  about  £200  a  year,  mainly  through  a  series  of 
sketches  which,  under  the  title  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  ] 
he  contributed  to  a  daily  newspaper.  He  was  induced  to  ; 
change  his  lodgings  and  live  quietly  in  the  country  district  of  i 
Islington,  far  from  the  temptations  of  the  town.  With  ordinary  \ 
prudence  his  life  would  now  have  been  happy  and  free  from 
care.  He  was  able  to  relieve  his  dreary  hack-work  by  other  j 
and  more  congenial  toil,  and  had  in  hand  two  masterpieces  ■ 

348  I 

i 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

which  were  soon  to  be  given  to  the  world.  He  was  received 
as  an  honoured  member  of  the  circle  which  contained  Johnson, 
Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  the  other  famous  members  of 
"  The  Club." 

But  an  income  of  five  times  the  amount  he  was  now  earning 
would  not  have  kept  the  careless,  generous  Irishman  out  of 
debt.  He  had  a  childish  delight  in  fine  clothes,  and  one  of 
Boswell's  best-known  anecdotes  of  Johnson  tells  how  the  sage 
rebuked  poor  Goldy  for  his  boastfulness  concerning  a  new 
bloom-coloured  coat,  lately  arrived  from  the  tailor's.  He 
could  never  say  no  to  a  needy  acquaintance  who  begged  for  a 
loan,  nor  refrain  from  relieving  misery  when  he  saw  it.  Con- 
sequently he  was  always  in  debt  to  his  pubUsher  for  money 
advanced  on  works  yet  to  be  written.  At  intervals  he  dis- 
appeared from  his  lodgings  for  short  periods,  to  escape  from 
angry  creditors.  The  chmax  of  his  misfortunes  came  at  the 
latter  end  of  1764,  and  the  account  of  this  incident  is  best 
given  in  the  words  of  Johnson.  "  I  received  one  morning  a 
message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress, 
and  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I 
would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea, 
and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as 
soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested 
him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I 
perceived  that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got 
a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork 
into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk 
to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He 
then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which 
he  produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit ;  told 
the  landlady  I  should  soon  return  ;  and  having  gone  to  a 
bookseller,  sold  it  for  £60.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money, 
and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in 
a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

The  novel  which  Johnson  sold  was  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 
The  publisher  probably  accepted  it  on  the  great  man's  recom- 
mendation, and  expecting  no  great  things  from  it,  put  it  on 

349 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

one  side  until  a  convenient  season  for  publication.  Before 
that  convenient  season  arrived,  Goldsmith  had,  by  common 
consent,  passed  from  the  ranks  of  talented  and  agreeable  j 
essayists  into  that  occupied  by  men  of  genius.  This  was  i 
the  result  of  the  publication  of  his  poem,  The  Traveller,  which  i 
appeared  in  December  1764.  Now,  while  all  the  town  was  i 
talking  about  Goldsmith,  was  evidently  the  time  for  producing ; 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  It  appeared  in  March  1766,  andj 
thought  it  was  not  so  immediately  acclaimed  as  had  been  the ' 
case  with  The  Traveller,  it  began,  from  the  very  first,  quietly , 
and  surely  to  make  its  way.  Its  progress  has  gone  on  without  i 
a  check,  and  to-day  it  stands  in  the  front  rank  among  thei 
books  that  are  admired,  loved  and  read.  ; 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  is  the  sweet,  pure  and  simple  story  i 
of  the  life  of  a  good  man.  It  is  not,  like  Richardson's  Pamela, 
packed  with  conventional  morality,  and  it  is  quite  free  from' 
the  coarseness  which  disfigures  Joseph  Andrews  and  Tom  Jones, , 
When  we  look  back  over  Oliver  Goldsmith's  life  and  think] 
how  great  a  part  of  it  had  been  passed  amid  poverty,  squalor,  [ 
and  crime  ;  when  we  remember  that  he  was  familiar  with  the] 
lowest  haunts  of  great  cities  and  had  lived  side  by  side  with' 
thieves  and  with  beggars,  we  cannot  help  wondering  how  he' 
managed  to  write  such  a  book  as  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  It  | 
is  a  testimony  to  the  native  innocence  of  his  spirit,  and  to  his  ■ 
natural  affinity  for  things  true  and  pure  and  lovely,  as  well  as  I 
to  his  great  genius.  It  proves  how  fondly  he  clung  to  thej 
affections  of  his  childhood,  and  how  fragrant  was  the  memory 
of  his  country  home  through  all  the  later  years.  The  quaint,  ^ 
delightful  humour  of  the  book  is  Goldsmith's  own.  His  fun  isj 
sweeter,  more  delicate  and  more  deliciously  unconscious  than' 
even  Addison's,  and  Sir  Roger  appears  a  trifle  starched  and  a| 
trifle  sophisticated  by  the  side  of  the  dear  old  Vicar,  whom  no^ 
name  could  snit  so  w^ell  as  that  which  Goldsmith  has  given^ 
him — Dr.  Primrose.  It  is  said  that  some  of  his  traits  arei 
drawn  from  the  author's  own  father,  and  he  probably  owes; 
something  to  Fielding's  Parson  Adams.  But  his  characteristic; 
charm  is  all  his  own.     It  is  difficult  to  pick  out  the  scenes  in, 

350  i 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

which  he  is  shown  to  the  best  advantage,  for  he  is  always 
dehghtful.     We  see  him  first  in  his  '  elegant  house/  with  his 
wife,  whom  he  chose,  "  as  she  did  her  wedding-gown,  not  for 
a  fine  glossy  surface,  but  for  such  quaUties  as  would  wear  well," 
and  his  children,  "  the  finest  in  the  country."     We  follow  him 
through  all  his  losses  and  misfortunes,  and  find  him  the  same 
kindly,  humorous,  quaintly  wise  Christian  gentleman  in  his 
poverty  as  he  was  in  the  days  of  his  wealth.     The  home  life 
which  is  pictured  throughout  the  book  is  perfect  in  its  happy 
orderliness   and   its  hearty   enjoyment   of   simple  pleasures. 
One  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the  book  describes  the 
Vicar's  return  to  his  home,  after  a  short  absence.     "  And  now 
my  heart  caught  new  sensations  of  pleasure,  the  nearer  I 
approached  that  peaceful  mansion.     As  a  bird  that  had  been 
frighted  from  its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my  haste,  and 
hovered  round  my  little  fireside  with  all  the  rapture  of  expecta- 
tion.    I  called  up  the  many  fond  things  I  had  to  say,  and 
anticipated  the  welcome  I  was  to  receive.     I  already  felt  my 
wife's  tender  embrace,  and  smiled  at  the  joy  of  my  Uttle  ones. 
As  I  walked  but  slowly  the  night  waned  apace.     The  labourers 
of  the  day  were  all  retired  to  rest ;  the  lights  were  out  in  every 
cottage  ;  no  sounds  were  heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock,  and  the 
deep-mouthed  watch-dog,  at  hollow  distance.     I  approached 
my  little  abode  of  pleasure,  and,  before  I  was  within  a  furlong 
of  the  place,  oiu:  honest  mastiff  came  running  to  welcome  me." 
When  the  poor  Vicar  finds  himself  in  a  debtors'  prison, 
neither  his  courage  nor  his  charity  forsakes  him.     The  miser- 
able condition  of  his  fellow  prisoners  turns  his  thoughts  from 
his  own  misfortunes,  and  he  resolves  to  make  an  effort  for  the 
amendment  of  those  whom  he  regards  as  his  new  parishioners. 
"  I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service  with  a  loud, 
unaffected  voice,   and  found  my  audience  perfectly  merry 
upon   the    occasion.     I^ewd    whispers,    groans    of    contrition 
burlesqued,  winking  and  coughing,  alternately  excited  laughter. 
However,  I  continued  with  my  natural  solemnity  to  read  on, 
sensible  that  what  I  did  might  mend  some,  but  could  itself 
receive  no  contamination  from  any." 

35 1 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Through  all  his  heavy  troubles  he  shows  himself  a  true  and 
brave  man :  and  renewed  prosperity  finds  him  the  same 
simple,  trusting,  kindly  humorous  being  as  before.  We  are 
glad  that  when  we  leave  him  he  is  happy  once  more,  with  the 
family  he  loves.  He  has  celebrated  the  marriage  of  his  eldest 
son,  among  the  friends  who  have  been  faithful  to  him  through 
his  time  of  adversity,  and,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  feast  was 
over,  "  according  to  my  old  custom  I  requested  that  the  table 
might  be  taken  away  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  my 
family  once  more  by  a  cheerful  fireside.  My  two  little  ones 
sat  upon  each  knee,  the  rest  of  the  company  by  their  partners. 
I  had  nothing  now  on  this  side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for  :  all 
my  cares  were  over  ;  my  pleasure  was  unspeakable.  It  now 
only  remained  that  my  gratitude  in  good  fortune  should 
exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity.'* 

So  ends  Goldsmith's  beautiful  prose  idyll,  which  can  scarcely 
be  better  described  than  in  his  own  words.  "  There  are  an 
hundred  faults  in  the  thing,  and  an  hundred  things  might  be 
said  to  prove  them  beauties.  But  it  is  needless.  A  book 
may  be  amusing  with  numerous  errors,  or  it  may  be  very  dull 
without  a  single  absurdity.  The  hero  of  this  piece  unites  in 
himself  the  three  greatest  characters  upon  earth ;  he  is  a 
priest,  an  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a  family.  He  is 
drawn  as  ready  to  teach,  and  ready  to  obey ;  as  simple  in 
affluence,  and  majestic  in  adversity.  In  this  age  of  opulence 
and  refinement  whom  can  such  a  character  please  ?  Such  as 
are  fond  of  high  life  will  turn  with  disdain  from  the  simplicity 
of  his  country  fireside  ;  such  as  mistake  ribaldry  for  humour 
will  find  no  wit  in  his  harmless  conversation ;  and  such  as 
have  been  taught  to  deride  religion  will  laugh  at  one  whose 
chief  stores  of  comfort  are  drawn  from  futurity."  The  words 
are  true  of  every  age  ;  yet  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  has  never 
wanted  admirers.  To  write  a  story  having  for  its  hero  an  old 
country  clergyman,  which  young  and  old  shall  read  with  eager 
interest,  is  no  small  achievement.  And  this,  to  his  lasting 
fame,  Goldsmith  has  done. 

The  last  seven  years  of  Goldsmith's  life  must  be  dealt  with 
352 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

very  briefly.  He  wrote  two  plays — The  Good  Matured  Man, 
and  SMStQo^sJo  Conquer — and  one  great  poem — The  Deserted 
Village.  All  three  have  taken  their  places  as  English  classics. 
He  did  also  an  enormous  amount  of  hack-work,  including  com- 
pilations and  abridgments.  These,  though  they  added  nothing 
to  his  fame,  brought  him  a  considerable  income.  But,  in  spite 
of  this,  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  involved  in  debt  and 
difficulties.  He  died  in  April  1774  of  a  nervous  fever,  which 
was  largely  due  to  the  worry  consequent  upon  the  desperate 
state  of  his  financial  affairs.  He  was  deeply  mourned  by  all 
those  who  had  loved  him,  and  all  those  he  had  helped  and 
loved.  A  group  of  wretched  creatures  whom  he  had  relieved 
waited,  we  are  told,  on  the  stairs  leading  to  his  chambers,  and 
burst  into  wild  weeping  when  they  heard  that  he  was  dead. 
The  members  of  **  The  Club "  mourned  as  for  a  brother. 
"  Poor  Goldsmith,"  wrote  Johnson,  "  is  gone.  He  died  of  a 
fever,  exasperated  as  I  believe,  by  the  fear  of  distress.  He 
raised  money  and  squandered  it  by  every  artifice  of  acquisition 
and  folly  of  expense.  But  let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered  ; 
he  was  a  very  great  man." 


353 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE   DECLINE   AND   FALL   OF   THE      | 
ROMAN    EMPIRE  ; 

EARIvY  in  1774  a  new  member,  named  Edward  Gibbon,  j 
was  admitted  to  "The  Club."  His  qualifications  for^ 
this  honour  were  that  he  had  published  an  Essai  sur 
r Etude  de  la  Litterature  (written  in  French)  and  that  he  wasj 
known  as  an  historian  of  vast  attainments.  He  was,  in  1774,  i 
thirty- seven  years  old,  and  was  already  beginning  to  show  signs  1 
of  the  corpulency  which  marked  him  in  after  life.  His  manners 
were  elaborate  and  formal,  and  his  dress  fastidiously  precise.. 
At  the  meetings  of  "  The  Club  "  he  spoke  seldom,  except  to  make 
a  quiet  remark  to  his  neighbour,  or  to  comment  in  an  under- 1 
tone  upon  the  proceedings  of  the  other  members.  Several  of' 
these  asides  are  recorded  by  Boswell.  On  one  occasion  thai 
talk  had  turned  on  wild  beasts,  and  Johnson  had  begun  ai 
monologue  on  bears,  which  he  continued  while  the  rest  of  thej 
company  carried  on  a  general  conversation.  "  At  last,  when! 
a  pause  occurred,  Johnson  was  going  on  :  '  We  are  told  that] 
the  black  bear  is  innocent,  but  I  should  not  like  to  trust  myself! 
with  him.'  Gibbon  muttered  in  a  low  tone,  '  I  should  not  like; 
to  trust  myself  with  you.*  "  We  can  well  imagine  that; 
between  the  great  doctor  and  the  great  historian  there  was' 
little  affinity,  and  that  each  tolerated  the  other  only  for  the! 
sake  of  their  mutual  friends,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  Oliver 
Goldsmith.  "  The  learned  Gibbon,"  says  Colman,  "  was  a: 
curious  counterbalance  to  the  learned  (may  I  say  the  les» 
learned)  Johnson.  Their  manners  and  tastes,  both  in  writing 
and  conversation,  were  as  different  as  their  habiliments.  Oa 
the  day  I  first  sat  down  with  Johnson  in  his  rusty-brown  suit 

3S4 


THE    DECLINE    &    FALL 

and  his  black  worsted  stockings.  Gibbon  was  placed  opposite 
to  me  in  a  suit  of  flowered  velvet,  with  a  bag  and  sword. 
Each  had  his  measured  phraseology,  and  Johnson's  famous 
parallel  between  Dryden  and  Pope  might  be  loosely  parodied 
in  reference  to  himself  and  Gibbon.  Johnson's  style  was 
grand,  and  Gibbon's  elegant :  the  stateliness  of  the  former 
was  sometimes  pedantic,  and  the  latter  was  occasionally 
finical.  Johnson  marched  to  kettledrums  and  trumpets, 
Gibbon  moved  to  flutes  and  hautboys.  Johnson  hewed 
passages  through  the  Alps,  while  Gibbon  levelled  walks 
through  parks  and  gardens.  Mauled  as  I  had  been  by  Johnson, 
Gibbon  poured  balm  upon  my  bruises  by  condescending  once 
or  twice  in  the  course  of  the  evening  to  talk  with  me.  The 
great  historian  was  light  and  playful,  suiting  his  matter  to  the 
capacity  of  the  boy  :  but  it  was  done  more  suo — still  his 
mannerism  prevailed,  still  he  tapped  his  snuff-box,  still  he 
smirked  and  smiled,  and  rounded  his  periods  with  the  same 
air  of  good-breeding  as  if  he  were  conversing  with  men.  His 
mouth  mellifluous  as  Plato's,  was  a  round  hole  nearly  in  the 
centre  of  his  visage." 

Gibbon  had,  at  the  time  when  he  joined  "  The  Club,"  been  two 
years  in  London.  The  death  of  his  father  in  November  1770 
had  left  him  with  a  small  but  sufficient  fortune,  and  he  was 
free  to  live  his  life  as  he  chose.  He  took  a  house  in  Bentinck 
Street,  Cavendish  Square,  "  bid  an  everlasting  farewell  to  the 
country,"  and  with  his  books,  "  the  most  valuable  of  his 
effects,"  came  up  to  town.  "  I  had  now,"  he  wrote  in  his 
Autobiography,  "  attained  the  solid  comforts  of  life — a  con- 
venient, well-furnished  house,  a  domestic  table,  a  dozen  chosen 
servants,  my  own  carriage,  and  all  those  decent  luxuries  whose 
value  is  the  more  sensibly  felt  the  longer  they  are  enjoyed. 
These  advantages  were  crowned  by  the  first  of  earthly  blessings, 
independence.  I  was  the  absolute  master  of  my  hours  and 
actions ;  nor  was  I  deceived  in  the  hope  that  the  establish- 
ment of  my  library  in  town  would  allow  me  to  divide  the  day 
between  study  and  society." 

Under  such  favourable  circumstances  Gibbon  set  about  the 

355 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

work  the  idea  of  which  had  been  in  his  mind  from  his  earliest 
youth.  In  his  Autobiography  he  tells  how  the  plan  had 
gradually  shaped  itself  in  his  mind.  He  records  with  regard 
to  his  sickly  and  studious  boyhood,  how  "  as  often  as  I  was 
tolerably  exempt  from  danger  and  pain,  reading,  free  desultory 
reading,  was  the  employment  and  comfort  of  my  solitary 
hours."  "  My  indiscriminate  appetite,"  he  goes  on,  "  subsided 
by  degrees  in  the  Historic  line."  In  the  summer  of  175 1  a 
volume  of  Bchard's  Roman  history  came  into  his  hands.  "  To 
me  the  reigns  of  the  successors  of  Constantine  was  absolutely 
new,  and  I  was  immersed  in  the  passage  of  the  Goths  over  the 
Danube,  when  the  summons  of  the  dinner-bell  reluctantly 
dragged  me  from  my  intellectual  feast."  The  enthusiasm  thus 
aroused  drove  him  on  to  further  study.  *'  Before  I  was 
sixteen  I  had  exhausted  all  that  could  be  learned  in  English  of 
the  Arabs  and  Persians,  the  Tartars  and  Turks  ;  and  the  same 
ardour  urged  me  to  guess  at  the  French  of  d'Herbelot,  and  to 
construe  the  barbarous  I^atin  of  Pocock's  Abulpharagius.'* 

This  course  of  study  was  interrupted  when,  in  1752,  Gibbon 
was  sent  to  the  University.     "  I  arrived  at  Oxford,"  he  says, 
"  with  a  stock  of  erudition  that  might  have  puzzled  a  doctor, 
and  a  degree  of  ignorance  of  which  a  schoolboy  would  have 
been  ashamed,"  and  "  I  entered  on  my  new  life  at  Magdalen 
College  with  surprise  and  satisfaction."     But  disappointment 
soon  followed.     "  The  University,"  he  says,  "  will  as  gladly 
renounce  me  for  her  son  as  I  shall  disclaim  her  for  my  mother 
since  I  am  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  the  fourteen  months 
which  I  spent  in  Magdalen  College  were  totally  lost  for  every 
purpose  of  study  or  improvement."    Two  years  at  I^ausanne 
followed  the  fourteen  months  at  Oxford.     At  I^ausanne  Gibbon 
was  under  the  charge  of  a  French  pastor  who  wisely  allowed 
him  to  follow  his  own  bent  in  his  studies.    The  fervour  of 
learning,  which  the  idleness  and  dissipation  of  his  college 
career  seemed  to  have  cooled,  now  revived,  and  he  pursued 
with  ardour  a  course  of  study  of  the  severest  description. 
These  two  years  were,  he  acknowledges,  among  the  most 
fruitful  of  his  life.    "  Such  as  I  am,  in  Genius  or  learning  or 
356 


Edward  Gibbon 

H.  Walton 

Pboto.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


3S6 


\ 


THE    DECLINE    &    FALL 

manners,  I  owe  my  creation  to  lyausanne  :  it  was  in  that 
school  that  the  statue  was  discovered  in  the  block  of  marble." 

In  1758  he  returned  home,  and  soon  afterward  wrote  his 
Essai  sur  VEtude  de  la  Litterature.  From  1759-62  he  was 
chiefly  occupied  by  his  duties  as  an  officer  in  the  militia. 
Yet  even  under  these  circumstances  he  managed  to  maintain 
a  keen  interest  in  literature,  and  especially  in  history.  He 
had  resolved  to  write  a  great  historical  work,  and  he  spent 
much  time  in  the  attempt  to  choose  a  suitable  subject. 
The  Crusade  of  Richard  I,  the  Barons'  Wars  against  John 
and  Henry  II,  the  lives  of  the  Black  Prince,  Henry  V,  the 
Emperor  Titus,  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and 
the  history  of  the  Swiss  people  were  successively  chosen  and 
rejected. 

When  the  militia  was  disbanded,  toward  the  close  of  1762 
Gibbon  started  on  a  continental  tour.  In  1764  he  arrived  at 
the  city  whose  history  he  was,  later,  to  tell.  "  My  temper," 
he  says,  "  is  not  very  susceptible  of  enthusiasm,  and  the 
enthusiasm  I  do  not  feel  I  have  ever  scorned  to  affect.  But  at 
the  distance  of  twenty-five  years  I  can  neither  forget  nor 
express  the  strong  emotions  which  agitated  my  mind  as  I  first 
approached  and  entered  the  eternal  City.  After  a  sleepless 
night,  I  trod  with  a  lofty  step  the  ruins  of  the  Forum  ;  each 
memorable  spot  where  Romulus  stood,  or  Tully  spoke,  or 
Caesar  fell,  was  at  once  present  to  my  eye  ;  and  several  days 
of  intoxication  were  lost  or  enjoyed  before  I  could  descend  to 
a  cool  and  minute  investigation."  He  had,  as  has  been  said, 
already  determined  to  write  an  historical  work.  "  It  was  the 
view  of  Italy  and  Rome  which  determined  the  choice  of  the 
subject.  In  my  Journal  the  place  and  moment  of  conception  are 
recorded  :  It  was  at  Rome,  on  the  fifteenth  of  October  1764,  in 
the  close  of  evening,  as  I  sat  musing  amidst  the  ruins  of  the 
Capitol,  while  the  barefooted  f ryars  were  singing  Vespers  in  the 
temple  of  Jupiter  that  the  idea  of  writing  the  decline  and 
fall  of  the  City  fijst  started  to  my  mind  "  but,  "  though  my 
reading  and  reflections  began  to  point  towards  that  object, 
some  years  elapsed  and  several  avocations  intervened  before 

357 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

I    was  seriously  engaged  in  the  execution  of  that  laborious 
work." 

The  first  volume  of  the  history  was  not  begun  until  Gibbon 
had  settled  down  in  London.  Then  he  set  to  work  in  earnest. 
"  At  the  outset  all  was  dark  and  doubtful — even  the  title  of 
the  work,  the  true  era  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Empire, 
the  limits  of  the  introduction,  the  division  of  the  chapters 
and  the  order  of  the  narrative ;  and  I  was  often  tempted  to 
cast  away  the  labour  of  seven  years.  .  .  .  Three  times  did  I 
compose  the  first  chapter,  and  twice  the  second  and  third, 
before  I  was  tolerably  satisfied  with  their  effect.  In  the 
remainder  of  the  way  I  advanced  with  a  more  equal  and  easy 
pace,"  and  in  June  1775  the  volume  was  ready  for  the  press. 
In  the  meantime  Gibbon  had  entered  Parliament,  and  his 
duties  as  a  member  had  somewhat  interfered  with  his  literary 
work. 

The  first  impression  of  a  thousand  copies  was  exhausted  in 
a  few  days,  and  a  second,  third  and  fourth  edition  called  for. 
"  My  book  was  on  every  table,  and  almost  on  every  toilette  ; 
the  historian  was  crowned  by  the  taste  or  fashion  of  the  day  : 
nor  was  the  general  voice  disturbed  by  the  barking  of  any 
profane  critic.  .  .  ."  Gibbon,  however,  derived  most  pleasure 
from  the  praise  given  him  by  the  two  great  historians,  David 
Hume,  the  first  volume  of  whose  History  of  England  had  been 
pubHshed  in  1754,  and  William  Robertson,  the  author  of  The 
History  of  Scotland  during  the  Reigns  of  Mary  and  James  VI, 
published  1759.  *'  A  letter  from  Mr.  Hume,"  he  says,  "  over- 
paid the  labour  of  ten  years ;  but  I  have  never  presumed  to 
accept  a  place  in  the  triumvirate  of  British  historians." 

Five  more  years  of  steady  hard  work  saw  the  second  and 
third  volumes  of  the  history  completed,  and  carried  the  story 
down  to  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  in  the  West.  This  was 
all  that  Gibbon  had  included  in  his  original  plan,  but  after 
thinking  over  the  matter  for  about  a  year,  he  decided  to  carry 
on  his  narrative  further  and  give  the  history  of  the  Roman 
Empire  established  by  Constantine  in  the  East,  up  to  the  fall 
of  Constantinople  in  1453.     But  he  did  not  immediately  take 

358 


THE    DECLINE    &    FALL 

the  work  in  hand.  He  was  growing  tired  of  his  life  in  London 
and  was  meditating  a  change.  He  had  during  the  two  years 
he  had  spent  at  lyausanne  formed  a  friendship  with  a  young 
Swiss  gentleman  named  Deyverdun,  and  this  friendship  had 
been  maintained  through  all  his  later  life.  The  two  friends 
now  proposed  to  set  up  a  joint  establishment  in  Deyverdun's 
large  and  commodious  house  which  overlooked  the  I^ake  of 
Geneva.  In  1783  the  plan  was  carried  out.  "  Since  my 
establishment  at  lyausanne,"  wrote  Gibbon,  in  1790,  **  more 
than  seven  years  have  elapsed,  and  if  every  day  has  not  been 
equally  soft  and  serene,  not  a  day,  not  a  moment  has  occurred 
in  which  I  have  repented  of  my  choice.  The  hurry  of  my 
departure,  the  joy  of  my  arrival,  the  delay  of  my  tools  sus- 
pended the  progress  of  my  labours,  and  a  full  twelvemonth 
was  lost  before  I  could  resume  the  thread  of  regular  and  daily 
industry."  After  this  interval,  however,  the  work  went  on 
rapidly,  and  by  1787  the  sixth  volume  was  finished.  "  I  pre- 
sumed," says  Gibbon,  in  words  which  have  been  quoted  so 
often  as  to  have  become  familiar  to  all  students,  **  to  mark 
the  moment  of  conception  :  I  shall  now  commemorate  the 
hour  of  my  final  deliverance.  It  was  on  the  day,  or  rather 
the  night,  of  the  27th  of  June,  1787,  between  the  hours  of  eleven 
and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a 
summer-house  in  my  garden.  After  laying  down  my  pen,  I 
took  several  turns  in  a  berceau,  or  covered  walk  of  acacias, 
which  commands  a  prospect  of  the  country,  the  lake,  and  the 
mountains.  The  air  was  temperate,  the  sky  was  serene,  the 
silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from  the  waters,  and  all 
Nature  was  silent.  I  will  not  dissemble  the  first  emotions  of 
joy  on  the  recovery  of  my  freedom,  and  perhaps  the  establish- 
ment of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  was  soon  humbled,  and  a 
sober  melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind  by  the  idea  that 
I  had  taken  my  everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable 
companion,  and  that,  whatsoever  might  be  the  future  date  of 
my  history,  the  life  of  the  historian  must  be  short  and  pre- 
carious." 
The  great  work  was  finished  ;  and  it  is  necessary  to  consider 

3S9 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

it  in  its  completeness  in  order  to  realize  how  truly  great  it  is. 
It  deals  with  the  greatest  event  that  the  history  of  the  world 
has  seen.  Gibbon  considers  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  in 
all  its  far-reaching  effects  on  the  thought,  beliefs,  morals, 
politics  and  civilization  of  the  world.  His  narrative  covers 
thirteen  centuries  and  brings  us  out  of  the  old  pagan  world, 
across  the  great  tracts  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  the  borders  of 
that  modern  world  in  which  we  live  to-day.  We  advance  with 
a  steady,  even  movement,  without  haste  or  agitation.  The 
great  panorama  of  history  is  unfolded  before  us,  and  scene 
follows  scene  in  regular  succession,  each  bringing  the  story  a 
stage  further  on  its  way. 

The  fullness  and  accuracy  which  distinguish  all  parts  of 
Gibbon's  vast  work  have  filled  his  critics  with  amazement. 
"  That  Gibbon  should  ever  be  displaced,**  says  Mr.  Freeman, 
"  seems  impossible.  .  .  We  may  correct  and  improve  from 
the  stores  that  have  been  opened  since  Gibbon's  time ;  we 
may  write  again  large  parts  of  his  story  from  other  and  often 
truer  and  more  wholesome  points  of  view,  but  the  work  of 
Gibbon  as  a  whole,  as  the  encyclopaedic  history  of  1300  years, 
as  the  grandest  of  historical  designs,  carried  out  alike  with 
wonderful  power  and  with  wonderful  accuracy,  must  ever  keep 
its  place.    Whatever  else  is  read.  Gibbon  must  be  read  too." 

In  July  1787  Gibbon  came  to  England  to  superintend  the 
publication  of  the  last  three  volumes  of  his  work.  He  returned 
to  I^ausanne  in  1788,  to  find  his  friend  Deyverdun  in  rapidly 
failing  health.  In  July  1789  Deyverdun  died.  Gibbon  missed 
him  sorely,  and  never  got  over  his  loss.  The  house  by  the 
I^ake  of  Geneva  became  distasteful  to  him  though  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  it.  He  attempted  no  more 
work,  and  even  his  books  were  neglected.  The  great  Revolu- 
tion, then  proceeding  in  France,  filled  him  with  alarm  and 
horror.  Soon  his  health  began  to  fail,  and  for  months  at  a 
time  he  was  helpless  with  gout.  Want  of  exercise  and  indul- 
gence in  unsuitable  diet  had  made  him  a  marvel  of  unwieldy 
corpulence.  Yet  he  bore  his  ills  with  the  cheerfulness  of  a 
philosopher,  and  tried  hard  to  maintain  his  enjoyment  of  the 
360 


THE    DECLINE    &    FALL 

good  things  within  his  grasp.  But  soon  still  heavier  troubles 
fell.  Friend  after  friend  was  lost  to  him  by  death,  and  when 
at  last  he  heard  that  the  wife  of  I^ord  Sheffield,  with  whom  he 
had  "  for  years  lived  on  terms  of  the  most  affectionate 
intimacy,"  was  dead.  Gibbon  suddenly  resolved  to  go  to 
England  to  attempt  to  console  his  friend.  To  a  man  in  his 
state  of  health  the  journey  was  a  difficult  and  a  dangerous  one, 
but  he  accomplished  it  in  safety.  He  spent  the  summer  with 
lyord  Sheffield,  and  seemed  to  be  rather  better  than  he  had 
been  at  I^ausanne.  But  toward  the  end  of  the  year  he  was 
attacked  by  the  illness  which  soon  brought  him  to  his  end. 
He  died  on  January  i6,  1794. 


2  A  3^1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
EVELINA 

IN  the  tiny  paved  court  that  lay  behind  a  house  in  Poland 
Street,  I^ondon,  on  the  afternoon  of  June  13,  1768,  a 
small  tragedy  was  being  enacted.  Up  in  the  corner  of 
the  court,  out  of  sight  of  the  windows  of  the  house,  there 
burnt  a  fire  made  of  dried  sticks  and  paper.  By  the  fire  stood 
two  girls.  One  was  a  sweet-faced  little  maiden  of  twelve,  who 
looked  awed  and  miserable  and  ready  to  cry.  The  face  of  the 
other  girl  expressed  not  so  much  sorrow  as  grim  determination. 
She  was  small  and  slight,  and  although  this  was  her  sixteenth 
birthday,  she  looked  little  older  than  the  sister  who  stood  at 
her  side.  She  held  a  bundle  of  papers  covered  with  her  own 
neat  handwriting,  and  these  she  threw  one  by  one  upon  the 
fire,  watching  steadfastly  with  her  soft,  short-sighted  eyes  as 
the  flames  caught  them  and  they  turned  to  blackened  ashes. 
As  the  last  paper  fell  the  little  sister  began  to  cry  piteously. 
The  elder  girl  put  her  arm  lovingly  round  her,  and,  silent  and 
sorrowful,  the  two  went  back  into  the  house. 

The  days  that  followed  this  solemn  and  tremendous  sacrifice 
were  sad  one  s  for  the  poor  authoress,  who,  from  a  stern  sense 
of  duty  had  devoted  her  treasure  to  destruction.  Susan  the 
dear  sympathetic  sister,  soon  recovered  her  spirits,  but  Fanny, 
the  elder,  still  mourned.  The  poems  and  stories  that  she  had 
spent  all  her  leisure  time  during  five  or  six  years  in  writing, 
were  gone,  and,  worse  than  this,  she  must  not  attempt  to 
write  any  more.  "  The  old  lady  " — as  Fanny,  from  her  shy 
and  demure  ways,  was  called  in  the  household — had  always 
loved  scribbling  and  *  making  up.'  Though  she  was  the 
dunce  of  the  family,  and  had  not  learnt  to  read  until  she  was 
362 


EVELINA 

eight  years  old,  she  was  always  able  to  delight  her  brothers 
and  sisters  with  a  story  '  out  of  her  own  head/  She  had,  in 
a  manner,  educated  herself.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she 
was  nine  years  old,  and  though  her  two  sisters  had  been  sent 
to  a  school  in  France,  Fanny,  for  various  reasons,  had  been 
kept  at  home.  Her  father.  Dr.  Burney,  was  the  most  popular 
music-master  of  fashionable  lyondon,  and  his  professional 
engagements  kept  him  busy  from  morning  to  night.  He  loved 
his  children  dearly,  and  they  adored  him,  but  he  gave  them 
little  care  or  attention.  So  Fanny  spent  her  days  very 
happily,  reading  in  his  library,  writing  long  descriptive  letters 
to  an  old  friend  of  the  family  whom  the  children  called  *  Daddy  ' 
Crisp,  and  scribbling  her  stories.  Her  evenings  were  often 
gay  enough,  for  Dr.  Burney  knew  most  of  the  notabilities  of 
I^ondon,  and  was  a  favourite  in  every  circle  to  which  he  was 
introduced.  His  modest  drawing-room  was  often  crowded 
with  a  company  as  brilliant  as  genius  and  talent  could  make 
it,  and  his  shy  observant  daughter  from  her  quiet  corner 
looked  out  over  a  wider  and  more  fruitful  field  of  study 
than  any  of  her  books  could  afford.  How  well  she  used  her 
opportunities,  her  letters,  which  escaped  the  fate  we  have 
seen  overtake  her  other  writings,  still  show.  The  airs  and 
oddities  of  each  member  of  the  company  were  marked  and 
remembered.  Fanny  had  a  fine,  though  a  quiet  sense  of 
humour  and  a  gift  of  mimicry  which,  though  she  was  too  shy 
to  exhibit  it  to  strangers,  was  well  known  to  her  intimate 
friends. 

But  when  Fanny  was  fifteen  years  old  her  father  married 
again.  The  new  step-mother  was  a  stately,  handsome,  clever 
lady,  who  was  anxious  to  do  her  very  best  for  her  husband's 
six  children.  She  made  the  home  a  far  more  orderly  and 
comfortable  place  than  it  had  been  for  years,  she  took  charge 
of  the  girls'  education,  and  tried  to  train  them  up  in  all  useful 
household  arts.  It  was  not  long  before  she  found  out  that 
Fanny  spent  a  great  part  of  her  time  in  '  scribbling.'  For  a 
time  Mrs.  Burney  said  nothing,  but  one  day  when  the  three 
girls — Hetty,  the  eldest  daughter,  Fanny,  and  Susan — were 

363 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

busy  with  their  sewing,  she  took  the  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  them  about  the  position  of  literary  women  of  the  day.  She 
pointed  out  that  the  crowd  of  lady  writers  who  had  tried  to 
follow  in  the  steps  of  Richardson  and  Fielding  had,  for  the 
most  part,  failed  to  do  more  than  provide  worthless  books  for 
idle  readers  ;  that  many  of  their  works  had  a  degrading  and 
immoral  tendency,  and  that  consequently  the  whole  class  of 
lady  novelists  had  received  an  ill  name  ;  that  a  girl  who  took 
up  writing  as  a  profession  ran  the  risk  of  identifying  herself 
with  a  class  so  lightly  esteemed,  and  had  little  chance  of 
gaining  fame  or  fortune.  The  words,  wisely  and  kindly 
spoken,  greatly  impressed  poor  Fanny,  and  the  result  was  the 
bonfire  that  has  been  described. 

But  as  she  sat  at  the  stitching  which  now  occupied  most  of 
her  morning  hours,  Fanny  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
stories  that  had  been  burnt.  There  was  one  in  particular 
that  she  had  dearly  loved.  It  was  about  Caroline  Evelyn,  a 
beautiful  and  charming  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  high- 
born gentleman  who  had  married  a  barmaid.  Caroline  had 
been  brought  up  by  her  father's  old  tutor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars, 
and  was  as  refined  as  she  was  lovely.  After  a  time  her  mother 
had  claimed  her,  and  had  taken  her  to  live  in  France.  Tor- 
tured by  the  vulgarity  of  her  surroundings,  she  had  listened, 
only  too  willingly,  to  the  advances  of  a  wicked  baronet,  who 
had  married  and  then  deserted  her.  Caroline,  with  her  infant 
daughter  had  taken  refuge  with  Mr.  Villars,  and  at  his  house 
the  broken-hearted  mother  had  died.  The  plot  was  made  up 
of  the  stock  elements  which  noveUsts  had  used  over  and  over 
again,  but  the  characters  were  dear  to  Fanny's  heart.  While 
she  stitched  industriously  at  her  father's  shirts  she  could  not 
help  thinking  of  the  little  motherless  girl  whom  Caroline 
Evelyn  had  left  behind,  and  picturing  her  as  she  grew  up  and 
came  to  know  her  high-born  wicked  father  and  her  vulgar, 
Frenchified  grandmother.  For  a  long  time,  however,  Fanny 
wrote  no  more  stories.  She  was  docile  by  nature,  and  her 
good  sense  showed  her  the  wisdom  in  her  stepmother's  kindly 
given  advice.     But  the  need  to  express  on  paper  the  results  of 

364 


Fanny  Burney 

From  a  Portrait  by  her  Brother 

Photo.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


364 


EVELINA 

her  observation  grew  urgent.  She  wrote  longer  and  longer 
letters  to  Daddy  Crisp — letters  that  delighted  the  old  man,  who 
was  living  the  life  of  a  hermit  at  an  old  house  at  Chessington, 
near  Bpsom.  But  letters  were  not  enough.  A  Uttle  while 
before  burning  her  stories  she  had  hit  on  the  idea  of  keeping  a 
diary.  There  could  be  no  possible  harm  in  going  on  with  that, 
she  thought.  Into  her  diary  went  all  her  impressions — 
sketches  of  the  visitors  who  came  to  her  father's  house,  accounts 
of  family  happenings,  tales  of  little  adventures  at  home  and 
abroad,  criticisms  of  the  books  she  read,  and  the  plays  she 
witnessed.  "  I  cannot  express,"  she  wrote,  "  the  pleasure  I 
have  in  writing  down  my  thoughts,  at  the  very  moment — my 
opinion  of  people  when  I  first  see  them,  and  how  I  alter  or 
confirm  myself  in  it.*'  The  diary  was  begun  in  May  1768,  and 
was  from  the  first  full  and  detailed.  Early  in  1774  the  Burneys 
moved  into  a  larger  house,  at  No.  i  St.  Martin's  Street, 
lycicester  Square,  a  house  where  Sir  Isaac  Newton  had  once 
lived,  and  where,  at  the  top,  was  a  little  wooden  turret  room, 
with  many  windows  and  a  tiny  fireplace,  said  to  be  his  obser- 
vatory. Fanny  at  once  made  this  her  own  special  sanctum, 
and  after  dutifully  performing  in  the  morning  those  prodigies 
of  fine  needlework  which  the  age  deemed  essential  for  a 
properly  brought-up  young  lady,  she  escaped  to  it  as  often  as 
she  could  in  the  afternoon,  and  wrote.  At  first  she  wrote  only 
her  diary  and  her  letters,  but  soon  the  desire  of  writing  a 
story  grew  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  She  was  now  a  young 
lady  of  twenty-two,  though  she  was  still  small  and  childish- 
looking,  and  she  felt  that  she  might  reasonably  act  according 
to  her  own  judgment.  The  fate  of  the  hapless  Caroline 
Evelyn  had  never  been  forgotten,  and  the  story  of  her  daughter 
was  in  Fanny's  head,  all  ready  to  be  written  down.  Since 
that  June  afternoon  which  had  seen  the  sacrifice  of  her  early 
manuscript,  Fanny's  powers  of  characterization  had  greatly 
increased.  Visitors  crowded  to  the  house  in  St.  Martin's  Street, 
and  there  was  scarcely  a  day  without  its  opportunity  for  a 
character  sketch .  To  give  a  complete  Hst  of  the  eminent  men  and 
women  whom  Fanny  Burney  saw  in  her  father's  house  would 

3^5 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

be  impossible.  There  was  Garrick,  the  actor,  who  ran  in  and 
out  of  the  house  at  all  hours,  and  was  the  idol  of  the  children  ; 
there  was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the  artist,  and  Joseph  Nolle- 
kins,  the  sculptor,  with  a  host  of  others.  Distinguished  pro- 
fessional singers  also  were  glad  to  visit  Dr.  Burney,  who  stood 
high  in  his  profession  both  as  a  teacher,  and  as  a  writer  on 
musical  subjects ;  and  almost  all  the  foreigners  of  distinction 
who  passed  through  I^ondon  were  seen  at  his  house.  Of  all 
these,  and  of  many  more,  Fanny  gives  lively  portraits  in  her 
diary.  She  tells,  too,  of  visits  to  the  theatre,  to  Ranelagh  and 
other  places  of  public  amusement.  Everywhere  her  keen  eyes 
were  open,  and  she  had  the  faculty  of  taking  in,  almost  at  a 
glance,  the  individual  traits  which  marked  out  those  she  met. 

With  this  mass  of  accumulated  material  she  sat  down  to 
write  her  novel.  She  called  her  heroine  KveHna,  and  gave  to 
her  all  the  virtues,  beauties  and  accompHshments  that  had 
been  possessed  by  her  unfortunate  mother,  Caroline  Evelyn. 
The  story,  like  Richardson's  Pamela,  is  given  in  the  form  of 
letters,  and  most  of  these  are  written  by  Evelina  herself.  The 
plot  is  very  slight,  its  interest  turning  chiefly  on  the  complica- 
tions which  follow  when  Evelina,  gently  born  and  bred,  is 
claimed  by  her  vulgar  grandmother,  Madame  Duval,  and  is 
introduced  by  her  to  friends  and  connexions  as  vulgar  as 
herself.  In  the  end  the  wicked  baronet,  EveHna*s  father,  is 
overcome  by  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  daughter,  and  by 
her  likeness  to  her  dead  mother  :  he  receives  her  with  tears  of 
repentance,  and  EveHna  is  happily  married  to  I^ord  Orville, 
who  has  been  faithful  to  her  through  many  trials  and  mis- 
understandings. The  value  of  the  book,  however,  lies  in  its 
character  sketches,  and  among  these  the  sketches  of  Madame 
Duval  and  the  ill-bred  members  of  her  circle  are  certainly  the 
best. 

The  History  of  Evelina,  however,  proceeded  but  slowly. 
Dr.  Burney  was  now  preparing  for  the  press  his  long-planned 
History  of  Music,  and  day  after  day  Fanny  sat  making  a  fair 
copy  of  his  rough  manuscript.  In  1770  and  in  1772  Dr. 
Burney  visited  the  Continent  to  collect  material  for  his  book, 

366 


EVELINA 

and  was  absent  some  months,  and  during  these  periods  his 
daughter's  work  made  great  progress.  Some  of  it  was  doubt- 
less written  at  Chessington,  where  Fanny  paid  frequent  visits 
to  her  kind  Daddy  Crisp  ;  but  in  the  main  Evelina  is  associated 
with  that  small  turret  room  to  which  Fanny  stole  away  when- 
ever she  could  escape  from  her  other  duties,  and  from  the 
watchful  eye  of  her  stepmother. 

Dr.  Burney's  History  of  Music  was  published  in  1776,  and 
it  was  perhaps  the  help  that  she  gave  to  her  father  while  the 
book  was  passing  through  the  press  that  first  made  Fanny 
think — doubtfully,  fearfully  and  secretly — that  her  own 
Evelina  might  one  day  appear  in  print.  She  had  by  this  time 
written  two  volumes  of  her  work,  and  was  engaged  on  the 
third.  After  much  inward  debate,  the  great  resolution  was 
taken,  and  Fanny  made  up  her  mind  to  attempt  the  publica- 
tion of  her  book.  She  was  nervously  anxious,  however,  not 
to  be  known  as  its  author.  She  thought  that  the  printers 
might  have  become  famiUar  with  her  handwriting  through 
seeing  it  on  the  sheets  of  her  father's  work,  so  she  copied  out 
the  whole  of  Evelina  in  a  disguised  hand,  sitting  up  the  greater 
part  of  many  nights  to  get  it  finished.  Her  sisters  were  by 
this  time  in  her  confidence,  and  together  the  girls  decided  to 
write  to  the  pubHsher  Dodsley ,  offering  the  two  volumes  already 
completed.  The  pubUsher  replied  that  he  could  not  consider 
any  work  of  which  the  author's  name  was  withheld.  A  new 
pubHsher  must  be  tried,  and  this  time  the  conclave  of  sisters 
decided  to  address  one  who  was  of  less  consequence  in  the 
literary  world.  They  decided,  also,  to  take  their  youngest 
brother,  Charles,  then  nineteen  years  old,  into  their  confidence. 
So  one  evening  Charles  was  secretly  summoned  to  his  sisters' 
room,  wrapped  up  and  disguised  after  the  best  fashion  they 
could  manage,  and  entrusted  with  the  precious  parcel  of 
manuscript,  which  he  was  to  carry  to  Mr.  I^owndes  of  Fleet 
Street.  Then  came  an  interval  of  suspense.  At  last  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Lowndes  was  forwarded  to  "  Mr.  Grafton,  The  Orange 
Coffee  House,  Haymarket," — the  name  and  address  that 
Fanny  Burney  had  given.    On  the  whole,  he  said  he  thought 

367 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

favourably  of  the  manuscript  submitted  to  him,  but  he  could  \ 
not  think  of  arranging  for  publication  until  he  had  seen  the  ; 
whole  of  the  story.  ] 

So  Fanny,  with  some  groans,  set  to  work  again.    Her  time    ' 
was  so  fully  occupied  that  she  had  scarcely  time  to  write  half    ; 
a  page  a  day.    A  visit  to  Chessington,  however,  gave  her    . 
more  leisure.     "  Distant  as  you  may  think  us  from  the  great 
world,"  she  wrote  to  Susan,  "  I  sometimes  find  myself  in  the    i 
midst  of  it,  though  nobody  suspects  the  brilliancy  of  the    ] 
company  I  occasionally  keep.**     She  was  probably  at  this    | 
time  writing  the  account  of  Evelina's  sojourn  at  Bath,  where    j 
the  last  act  of  the  drama  takes  place,  and  where  her  high-born 
friends  and  admirers  are  assembled,  including  the  all-conquering    i 
Lord  Orville,  and  the  wicked  but  repentant  father.  Sir  John    i 
Belmont.    Soon  after  Fanny's  return  to  St.  Martin's  Street  the    j 
book  was  finished.     But  now  that  the  decisive  moment  had 
come  she  felt  that  she  could  not  take  the  important  step  of    ; 
pubUshing  her  novel  without  her  father's  permission.    In  fear 
and  trembling  she  told  him  she  had  written  a  book,  and  a 
publisher  had  been  found  willing  to  take  it.    The  admission 
greatly  amused  Dr.   Burney.    That    his    quiet    '  old  lady ' 
should  aspire  to  literary  fame  seemed  to  him  the  best  of  jokes. 
He    promised  secrecy,  and  did  not  trouble  to  inquire  any 
further  into  the  matter. 

In  April  1777  the  book  was  sent  to  Mr.  Lowndes,  and  twenty 
pounds,  in  payment,  was  received  by  Fanny.  "  This  year," 
she  wrote  in  her  diary  for  1778,  "  was  ushered  in  by  a  grand 
and  most  important  event, — ^for  at  the  latter  end  of  January 
the  literary  world  was  favoured  with  the  first  publication  of 
the  ingenious,  learned,  and  most  profound  Fanny  Burney.  I 
doubt  not  but  this  memorable  affair  will,  in  future,  mark  the 
period  whence  chronologers  will  date  the  zenith  of  the  polite 
arts  in  this  island.  The  admirable  authoress  has  named  her 
most  elaborate  performance  Evelina ;  or,  a  young  Lady's 
Entrance  into  the  World.'' 

It  was  advertised  anonymously  in  the  London  Chronicle, 
and  Mrs.  Burney  innocently  read  out  the  announcement  at 
368 


EVELINA 

the  breakfast  table,  while  Fanny  held  down  her  head  and 
blushed,  and  Susan  and  Charlotte  exchanged  awed,  delighted 
glances. 

Soon  the  book  found  its  way  to  the  circulating  libraries. 
*'  I  have  an  exceedingly  odd  sensation,"  wrote  Fanny,  "  when 
I  consider  that  it  is  now  in  the  power  of  any  and  everybody  to 
read  what  I  so  carefully  hoarded  even  from  my  best  friends, 
till  the  last  month  or  two."  In  June  Dr.  Burney,  being 
reminded  by  the  notice  in  the  London  Chronicle,  bought  a  copy 
of  his  daughter's  work,  and  read  the  introductory  ode  in 
which  it  was  dedicated  to  him.  The  verses  have  no  poetic 
value,  but  they  touched  and  delighted  the  fond  father.  The 
writer  lauds  the  "  Author  of  her  being,"  and  wishes  that  her 
work  were  worthy  of  her  parentage  : 

But  since  my  niggard  stars  that  gift  refuse, 
Concealment  is  the  only  boon  I  claim  ; 

»  Obscure  be  still  the  unsuccessful  muse. 

Who  cannot  raise,  but  would  not  sink  thy  fame. 

Susan  reports  to  Fanny  who  is  then  at  Chessington  how  she 
and  Charlotte  Hstened  outside  their  father's  bedroom  door  and 
heard  him  reading  the  book  to  his  wife.  "  It  was  near  twelve," 
she  adds,  "  before  we  breakfasted."  Then  comes  the  father's 
verdict.  "  It  is  the  best  novel  I  know  excepting  Fielding's  "  ; 
and  a  little  later,  "  The  schtoff  (stuff)  reads  better  the  second 
time  than  the  first,  and  thou  hast  made  thy  old  father  laugh 
and  cry  at  thy  pleasure."  Next  Susan  writes  that  the  book 
has  been  praised  by  that  great  hterary  dictator.  Dr.  Johnson. 
:  **  There  are  passages  in  it,  the  great  man  declares,  which  might 
do  honour  to  Richardson."  This  news  sends  Fanny  wild 
with  deUght.  '*  Dr.  Johnson's  approbation  !  it  almost  crazed 
me  with  agreeable  surprise, — it  gave  me  such  a  flight  of  spirits 
that  I  danced  a  jigg  to  Mr.  Crisp,  without  any  preparation, 
music  or  explanation — to  his  no  small  amazement  and  diver- 
sion." Mr.  Crisp  was  not  yet  in  the  secret.  Fanny  had  been 
reading  Evelina  to  him,  and  he  had  grown  deeply  interested 
in  the  story,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  its  author  until  Dr. 
Burney  when  he  came  in  August  to  fetch  Fanny   home, 

3<^9 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

delighted  his  old  friend  with  the  tale  of  his  favourite's 
fame. 

On  her  return  to  I^ondon  Fanny  Burney  found  herself 
already  a  noted  figure  in  initiated  circles,  and  gradually,  as 
the  secret  of  the  authorship  of  Evelina  became  widely  known, 
the  lion  of  literary  society.  She  was  invited  to  Streatham, 
to  the  house  of  Dr.  Johnson's  friend,  Mrs.  Thrale,  and  there 
she  met  the  great  man  himself.  She  had  seen  him  before  at 
her  father's  house,  but  he  had  taken  little  notice  of  the  quiet, 
shrinking  girl  who  did  nothing  to  attract  his  attention.  Now 
he  exulted  over  his  'little  Burney,'  sang  her  praises  every- 
where, and  treated  her  in  a  fatherly,  caressing  fashion  which 
she  found  highly  flattering.  His  keen  and  trained  judgment 
saw  that  Evelina  really  marked  a  distinct  stage  in  the  evolution 
of  the  novel.  With  discriminating  pla5^ulness  he  called 
Fanny  a  "  little  charactermonger,"  hitting  at  once  on  the 
chief  merit  of  her  work.  It  is  as  a  "  charactermonger  "  that 
she  occupies  a  place  in  literary  history. 

Praises  of  Evelina  continued  to  pour  in,  "  Do,  Mr.  I^owndes, 
give  me  Evelina/*  the  ladies  said,  "  I  am  treated  as  unfashion- 
able for  not  having  read  it."  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  sat  up  all 
night  to  finish  it.  "  Burke  doats  on  it ;  he  began  it  one 
morning  at  seven  o'clock  and  could  not  leave  it  a  moment ; 
he  sat  up  all  night  reading  it.  He  says  he  has  not  seen  such 
a  book  he  can't  tell  when."  "  Are  they  all  mad,"  exclaimed 
happy  Fanny  Burney,  "  or  do  they  want  to  make  me  so." 

Here,  at  the  height  of  her  triumph  we  must  leave  the  young 
authoress,  briefly  summarizing  the  remaining  events  of  her 
long  life.  In  1782  she  published  a  second  novel,  Cecilia, 
which  is  superior  to  Evelina  in  construction  and  plot,  but 
lacks  something  of  the  freshness  of  the  earlier  work.  Miss 
Burney's  fame  now  attracted  royal  notice,  and  in  July  1786 
she  received  an  appointment  as  Junior  Keeper  of  the  Robes. 
This  appointment  she  held  for  five  years,  during  which  time 
she  wrote  nothing.  In  179 1  she  resigned  her  office,  and  in 
1793  she  married  General  D'Arblay,  a  French  refugee.  In 
1796  she  pubHshed  a  third  novel,  Camilla,  which  shows  a 
370 


EVELINA  \ 
great  falling  off  in  power.    In  1801,  after  the  Peace  of  Amiens, 
she  accompanied  her  husband  to  France,  and  remained  in  that 

country  for  ten  years.     In  1814  her  fourth  novel.  The  Wanderer,  \ 

appeared.    This  book,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  was  a  j 

failure,  though  three  thousand  six  hundred  copies  were  sold  I 

at  two  guineas  each  in  six  months.     Its  sale  was  due  to  its  \ 
author's  popularity,  and  declined  as  the  book  became  known. 

Madame  D'Arblay   occupied   her   last   years  in   editing  the  1 

Memoirs  of  Dr.  Burney,  compiled  from  his  letters  and  papers.  •' 

She  died  in  January  1840,  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven.  \ 


371 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE    TASK 

HUNTINGDON  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was  a  small  and  quiet  country  town,  to  which 
few  strangers  came,  and  where  life  was  dull  and 
uneventful.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  when  in  June 
1765  a  young  man  with  his  servant  took  lodgings  in  one  of 
its  drowsy  streets,  considerable  interest  should  be  aroused. 
The  young  man  was  evidently  gently  born  and  bred.  He  had 
a  broad,  intellectual  forehead,  sensitive  and  refined  features, 
and  a  general  appearance  of  extreme  dehcacy.  His  face  wore 
a  rapt,  uplifted  expression,  as  if  his  eyes  looked  on  things 
more  wonderful  and  beautiful  than  those  in  the  common 
world  about  him ;  his  manners  were  gentle,  and  his  whole 
demeanour  full  of  calm  cheerfulness.  lyittle  was  known  about 
him,  except  that  his  name  was  William  Cowper,  that  he  had 
a  brother  Hving  at  Cambridge,  twenty  miles  away,  and  that  he 
had  come  to  Huntingdon  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  a  severe 
illness.  But  of  the  nature  of  the  malady  the  good  folk  of 
Huntingdon  knew  nothing.  They  did  not  guess  that  the 
stranger  whose  gentle  winning  countenance  excited  their 
interest  had  but  lately  suffered  all  the  agonies  of  acute  reUgious 
melancholia  ;  that  he  had  attempted  to  take  his  own  life  ; 
that  he  had  passed  eighteen  months  in  a  private  asylum  for 
those  afflicted  with  mental  disorders  ;  and  that  he  had  told  of 
his  sufferings  in  some  of  the  most  heart-rending  and  terrible 
verses  that  ever  came  from  a  tormented  human  soul. 

Yet  so  it  was,  and  the  serene  happiness  that  now  possessed 
him  had  been  won  in  this  great  struggle.  In  his  madness  it 
had  been  the  fear  of  the  wrath  of  God  that  had  made  his 
372 


THE    TASK 

torture,  and  the  assurance  of  God's  forgiveness  had  come  with 
his  cure.  Cowper  had  experienced  what,  in  those  days  when 
Wesley's  preaching  was  awakening  all  Bngland,  men  were  not 
afraid  or  ashamed  to  call  conversion.  The  wise  and  kind 
treatment  of  his  physician  had  gradually  brought  healing  to 
his  poor,  tormented  mind,  until,  one  morning,  as  he  himself 
tells  us,  he  woke  up,  feeling  cheerful  and  composed.  He  took 
up  his  Bible,  which  during  his  fits  of  madness  he  had  not 
borne  to  look  at,  and  read  a  verse  in  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 
"  Immediately  I  received  strength  to  believe,  and  the  full 
beams  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  shone  upon  me.  I  saw 
the  suflGiciency  of  the  atonement  He  had  made,  my  pardon  in 
His  blood,  and  the  fullness  and  completeness  of  His  justifica- 
tion. In  a  moment  I  believed  and  received  the  Gospel."  His 
conversion  brought  with  it  complete  recovery,  and  Cowper 
was  still  in  the  rapturous,  exalted  frame  of  mind  produced  by 
this  great  mental  and  spiritual  awakening  when  he  came  to 
Huntingdon. 

His  happiness  was  perfect.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  been 
opened  so  that  he  saw  new  beauties  in  everything  around  him, 
and  a  new  glory  over  all  the  earth.  The  flat,  fen  country 
charmed  his  eyes,  the  sluggish  Ouse  was  a  river  of  delight. 
Simple  pleasures  sufficed  him — his  morning  bathe,  his  rides 
toward  Cambridge  to  meet  his  brother,  his  solitary  walks,  his 
rapturous  reveries.  Several  families  in  the  town  made 
advances  to  him,  and  pressed  him  to  join  in  the  small  gaieties 
which  country  society  provided.  But  to  the  strict  Evangelical, 
such  as  Cowper  had  become,  the  gaieties  savoured  of  sin.  He 
met  his  fellows  only  at  church,  and  even  there  the  spiritual 
ecstasy  in  which  he  was  wrapped  made  him  almost  unconscious 
of  their  presence  ;  and  he  talked  only  to  a  few  '  odd  scrambling 
fellows '  whom  he  met  in  his  daily  walks. 

But  gradually  the  raptures  began  to  fade.  The  sensitive 
spirit,  which  joy  had  raised  so  high,  sank  quickly  when  the 
reaction  came.  Religion  seemed  less  satisfying,  and  "  the 
communion  which  I  had  so  long  been  able  to  maintain  with 
the  lyord  was  suddenly  interrupted."     Cowper  began  to  long 

373 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

for  some  kindly  human  companionship   and  to  dread  the 
gloomy  winter,  so  quickly  coming  on.     His  face  lost  its  look 
of  happiness  ;   his  whole  manner  became  dejected.     One  day, 
after  morning  service,  he  was  walking  sadly  along  by  the  trees 
that  bordered  the  churchyard,  when  a  stranger  came  up  and 
spoke  to  him.     It  did  not  take  the  two  long  to  assure  them- 
selves that  they  were  in  sympathy  on  many  points.     The 
stranger  introduced  himself  as  William  Unwin,  son  of  a  clergy- 
man living  in  Huntingdon.     He  was  preparing  to  take  holy 
orders,  and  was  as  strongly  Evangelical  in  his  views  as  Cowper 
himself.     He  invited  Cowper  to  his  home,  and,  cheered  and 
refreshed  by  the  meeting,  Cowper  consented  to  go.     It  was 
a  home  after  his  own  heart,  devoutly  religious  and  quietly  i 
cheerful.     To  his  friend's  mother  the  visitor  at  once  felt  a 
strong  attraction.    Mrs.  Unwin  was  grave,  precise,  almost 
austere  in  manner,  and  she  had  the  true  Evangelical  hatred  of  ] 
frivolity   and   display.    Her   conversation   had   a   touch   of  ; 
sanctimoniousness,  and  she  had  adopted  all  the  prejudices  ^ 
that  distinguished  the  religious  party  to  which  she  belonged,  j 
Yet  under  all  this  lay  the  same  quiet  gaiety  of  spirit  that 
distinguished  Cowper  himself  in  his  happier  moments.     She 
loved,  as  he  did,  the  small  occupations  and  the  calm  joys  of 
home  ;   and  the  tender  tact  that  comes  from  a  true  sympathy  , 
taught  her  how  to  approach  this  gentle  beautiful  nature,  so  ^ 
unfit,  as  she  saw,  to  meet  the  stern  realities  of  life.     "  I  met  ' 
Mrs.  Unwin  in  the  street,''  Cowper  wrote  soon  after  their  first   j 
introduction,  "  and  went  home  with  her.     She  and  I  walked 
together  near  two  hours  in  the  garden,  and  had  a  conversation   j 
which  did  me  more  good  than  I  should  have  received  from  an   I 
audience  with  the  first  prince  in  Europe.     That  woman  is  a   - 
blessing  to  me,  and  I  never  see  her  without  being  the  better    ! 
for  her  company."     Soon  it  was  suggested  that  he  should  live    i 
as  a  boarder  in  the  house  of  the  Unwins,  and  he  received  the    ' 
suggestion  with  the  deepest  gratitude.     He  longed  for  a  home,    j 
and  he  longed  for  sympathy  in  his  spiritual  life  ;  both  of  these    \ 
he  would  find  with  the  Unwins.     The  plan,  too,  would  lessen 
his  expenses,  and  this  was  a  matter  of  consequence  to  him    ; 

374 


William  Cowper 


374 


THE    TASK 

since  he  depended  entirely  upon  a  small  income  which  the 
different  members  of  his  family  subscribed  to  give  him.  Before 
the  end  of  the  year  he  was  established  as  one  of  the  Unwin 
household,  and  wrote  thus  of  his  new  life  :  "  We  breakfast 
commonly  between  eight  and  nine  ;  till  eleven,  we  read  either 
the  Scripture  or  the  sermons  of  some  faithful  preacher  of  those 
holy  mysteries ;  at  eleven  we  attend  divine  service,  which  is 
performed  here  twice  every  day,  and  from  twelve  to  three  we 
separate  and  amuse  ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that 
interval,  I  either  read  in  my  own  apartment,  or  walk  or  ride, 
or  work  in  the  garden.  We  seldom  sit  an  hour  after  dinner, 
but  if  the  weather  permits,  adjourn  to  the  garden,  where,  with 
Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  son  I  have  generally  the  pleasure  of 
religious  conversation  till  tea-time.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too  windy 
for  walking,  we  either  converse  within  doors  or  sing  some 
hymns  of  Martin's  collection,  and  by  the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwinds 
harpsichord,  make  up  a  tolerable  concert,  in  which  our  hearts 
I  hope  are  the  best  performers.  After  tea  we  sally  forth  to 
walk  in  good  earnest.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  a  good  walker,  and  we 
have  generally  travelled  about  four  miles  before  we  see  home 
again.  When  the  days  are  short,  we  make  this  excursion  in 
the  former  part  of  the  day,  between  church-time  and  dinner. 
At  night  we  read  and  converse  as  before  till  supper,  and  com- 
monly finish  the  evening  either  with  hymns  or  a  sermon,  and 
last  of  all  the  family  are  called  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  such  a  life  as  this  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  cheerful- 
ness ;  accordingly  we  are  all  happy,  and  dwell  together  in 
unity  as  brethren."  It  was  not  perhaps  the  best  kind  of  life 
that  Cowper,  with  his  tendency  to  reUgious  melancholy,  could 
have  led.  But  the  love  and  care  which  surrounded  him  made 
up  for  much,  and  there  was,  perhaps,  more  incidental  relaxa- 
tion and  merriment  than  his  account  would  lead  us  to  suppose. 
In  July  1767  Mr.  Unwin  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse. 
His  son  had  already  left  Huntingdon  to  take  up  work  else- 
where. Only  Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  were  left.  Their 
attachment  had  by  this  time  grown  so  strong  that  neither 
could  bear  to  think  of  separation.     They  resolved  io  remove 

375 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

from  Huntingdon,  and  take  a  house  together  in  another  place. 
For  some  time  they  debated  as  to  where  they  should  go.  It 
must  be  a  place  where  there  was  a  pious  Evangelical  minister  ; 
for  other  things  they  cared  little.  Chance  decided  the  matter 
for  them.  Mr.  John  Newton,  vicar  of  Olney  in  Buckingham- 
shire, was  asked  by  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Unwinds  son  to  call  upon 
them.  He  was  a  noted  Evangelical  preacher,  one  of  the 
foremost  figures  of  the  revival,  and  had  had  a  strange  and 
eventful  career.  He  had  been  a  sailor,  had  been  shipwrecked, 
had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  slave-dealer  and  suffered  almost 
every  conceivable  misery.  He  had  been  converted  as  the 
result  of  a  marvellous  escape  from  drowning,  and  had  after- 
ward himself  become  a  slave-dealer.  Being  convinced  of  the 
evil  nature  of  his  trade,  he  had  given  it  up,  and  after  many 
difficulties  had  been  ordained  a  minister  of  the  Church  of 
England.  The  ardour  that  possessed  him  showed  itself  in  his  j 
work,  and,  as  he  said  himself,  "  his  name  was  up  about  the ; 
country  for  preaching  people  mad." 

It  was  this  robust,  stern  yet  not  unkindly  nature  under  j 
whose  influence  Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  now  fell.  When  he  j 
urged  them  to  come  with  him  to  Olney  they  agreed  at  once, 
and  took  the  house  which  stood  next  to  his  own.  It  was  a . 
miserable  dwelling,  gloomy,  damp  and  dilapidated,  standing! 
in  the  poorest  quarter  of  the  poor  town.  Olney,  indeed,  was 
little  better  than  a  village,  and  there  were  no  inhabitants  of  a ; 
social  rank  equal  to  that  of  Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin.  The  | 
poor,  half-starved  lacemakers,  who  formed  the  chief  part  of  i 
the  population  crowded  together  in  their  unhealthy  houses, ; 
built  on  the  low  banks  of  the  marshy  Ouse.  There  were  few ! 
pleasant  walks,  and  everywhere  the  air  was  heavy  with  mists  j 
from  the  river.  j 

As  compensation  for  all  these  disadvantages  the  two  new- 
comers had  the  society  of  the  Reverend  John  Newton  and  his  ^ 
wife.  A  gate  was  opened  between  the  gardens  of  the  two  i 
houses,  so  that  the  dwellers  could  pass  freely  from  one  to| 
another,  and  Mr.  Newton  at  once  took  the  lives  of  his  neigh- ' 
bours  under  his  direction.    The  day  was  spent  in  religious! 

37^ 


THE    TASK 

exercises  and  in  visiting  the  poor ;  all  intercourse  with  the 
outside  world,  even  by  letter,  was  gradually  discontinued. 
There  were  few  books  to  be  found  in  either  household,  for 
Cowper's  library  had  been  sold  before  the  removal  from 
Huntingdon.  Newton's  misguided  zeal  urged  his  follower  into 
courses  which  were  destructive  to  his  mental  and  his  bodily 
health.  The  shy,  sensitive  Cowper,  to  whom  any  public 
utterance  was  little  short  of  agony,  was  induced  to  speak  of 
his  spiritual  experiences  at  prayer-meetings,  and  to  exhort  to 
repentance,  jeering,  half-brutalized  labourers.  He  had  at 
first  described  the  life  at  Olney  as  "a  decided  course  of 
Christian  happiness,"  and  in  his  religious  fervour  he  was  willing 
to  attempt  all  that  his  mentor  required  of  him.  But  the 
strain  was  too  great,  and  in  1773  it  brought  about  a  complete 
mental  breakdown.  He  was  tortured  by  the  belief  that  his 
soul  was  lost,  he  was  unable  to  pray,  and  in  his  despair  he 
once  more  attempted  to  take  his  life.  The  kind  and  skilful 
care  of  the  experienced  physician  who  had  before  attended 
him  might  have  saved  him  from  a  second  attack  of  madness  ; 
but  to  John  Newton  the  disorder  was  the  work  of  Satan,  and 
the  enemy  was  to  be  met  with  spiritual  weapons  only.  Mrs. 
Unwin  entirely  agreed,  and  with  the  most  wonderful  devotion 
the  two  tended  their  unhappy  friend.  The  heaviest  part  of 
the  burden  fell  on  Mrs.  Unwin.  She  hved  alone  with  Cowper 
in  the  melancholy  house,  attempting  to  combat  his  delusions, 
and  bearing  with  heroic  patience  his  reproaches  for  the  hatred 
which  he  persisted  in  believing  that  she  bore  him.  At  last, 
after  nearly  eighteen  months,  the  physician  was  called  in,  and 
under  his  skilled  treatment  Cowper  recovered. 

The  delicate  balance  of  the  brain  was  restored,  and  now  the 
aim  of  Cowper's  faithful  and  devoted  nurse  was  to  preserve 
him  from  the  stress  and  strain  of  mental  effort,  and  especially 
from  the  religious  excitement  that  had  proved  so  dangerous. 
It  was  perhaps  a  happy  thing  for  Cowper  that  at  this  time 
John  Newton  left  Olney,  and  though  he  continued  to  guide 
and  direct  the  followers  he  had  left  behind,  by  means  of  letters, 
his  personal  influence  was  removed.    Mrs.  Unwin  was  left 

2B  377 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

alone  with  her  charge.     She  tended  him  with  a  wisdom  such 
as  devoted  love  alone  could  have  taught  her.     Some  light 
occupation  she  knew  he  must  have,  and  gardening,  carpenter- 
ing, and  drawing  were  successively  tried.    The  tame  hares —  \ 
Tiny,  Puss,  and  Bess — ^who  are  so  well  known  to  us  through  j 
Cowper's  delightful  descriptions,  helped  him  to  pass  many  | 
hours  with  quiet  enjoyment.     But  none  of  these  things  gave  | 
employment  to  the  fine  powers  of  his  brain,  and  it  was  the  i 
habit  of  introspective  self-torture  that  Mrs.  Unwin  dreaded,  j 
She  therefore  urged  him  to  take  up  seriously  the  writing  of  j 
poetry.     He  was  at  this  time  nearly  fifty  years  old,  and  though  i 
he  had  written  verses  in  his  youth,  as  well  as  some  hymns  for 
a  collection  made  by  John  Newton,  he  had  read  little  poetry  | 
and  knew  nothing  of  its  technicalities.     But  he  readily  took  | 
up  Mrs.  Unwinds  suggestion,  and  conferred  with  her  on  the  i 
choice  of  a  subject.    Something  in  the  nature  of  a  didactic  i 
poem,  would,  she  thought,  be  best  suited  to  his  powers,  and  l 
she   suggested    The  Progress   of  Error.    Upon   this   subject  \ 
Cowper  therefore  began  to  write,  and  when  he  had  finished,  i 
went  on  with  a  series  of  Moral  Satires — Truth,  Table  Talk, 
Expostulation,  Hope,  Charity,  Conversation,  Retirement.    The ! 
plan  of  each  poem  was  sent  to  Mr.  Newton  for  his  approval,  \ 
and  signs  of  his  influence  may  be  seen  throughout.     As  poetry :' 
these  efforts  do  not  rank  high.     They  fulfilled  their  purpose  of 
distracting  Cowper*s  mind  from  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
spiritual  condition,  but  they  did  not  call  out  his  highest  powers. ' 

The  home  at  Olney  was  now  once  more  serene  and  cheerful. ' 
Cowper' s  health  continued  to  mend,  and  the  charming  plajrful- 
ness  which,  almost  more  than  anything  else,  makes  him  such  I 
a  human  lovable  character  to  us  to-day,  began  slowly  toj 
revive.  The  letters  which  he  wrote  at  this  period  are  among 
his  best  productions,  merry,  affectionate  and  full  of  delightful  ■ 
intimate  chit-chat  about  the  trifles  that  made  up  his  life.  They  I 
show  just  the  quahties  which  are  absent  from  the  Moral  Sati    s. ; 

In  1781  a  new  interest  and  source  of  inspiration  came  into  j 
Cowper's  life.  He  was  looking  out  of  the  window  on  one  fine ' 
morning  when  he  saw  two  ladies  crossing  the  street.     One  of  i 

378 


THE    TASK 

them  lie  knew  ;  she  was  Mrs.  Jones,  the  wife  of  a  neighbouring 
clergyman.  The  appearance  and  air  of  the  other  lady  so 
greatly  attracted  him  that  he  begged  Mrs.  Unwin  to  go  out  at 
once  and  ask  them  to  take  tea  at  the  house  that  afternoon. 
They  came,  and  Cowper,  his  natural  shyness  returning  upon 
him,  was  afraid  to  go  down  to  meet  them  ;  but  summoning  his 
courage  he  at  last  made  liis  appearance,  and  the  four  spent 
a  most  delightful  evening.  The  lady,  he  found,  was  I^ady 
Austen,  sister  to  Mrs.  Jones  and  widow  of  a  baronet.  She 
had  travelled,  and  had  lived  for  some  time  in  France,  had 
been  much  in  society  and  could  talk  with  a  bright  vivacity 
that  won  Cowper' s  heart.  The  two  soon  became  great  friends. 
He  called  her  Sister  Anne,  read  his  poems  to  her,  and  was 
delighted  with  her  critical  comments.  She  amused  and  cheered 
him  in  every  way  in  her  power,  watching  his  moods,  and 
sparing  no  pains  to  rouse  him  from  his  constantly  recurring  fits 
of  depression.  She  sang  to  him,  told  him  stories,  and  drew 
him  on  to  talk  on  the  subjects  that  interested  him  most.  One 
evening,  when  she  saw  that  gloom  seemed  settling  upon  him 
she  told  him  a  story  about  a  I^ondon  draper  who,  starting  out 
for  a  holiday  on  horseback,  met  with  all  sorts  of  amusing 
mishaps  in  a  method  of  travelling  to  which  he  was  quite  un- 
accustomed. The  story  tickled  Cowper  immensely,  and  the  other 
inmates  of  the  house  heard  peal  after  peal  of  laughter  coming 
from  his  room  after  he  had  gone  to  bed.  In  the  morning  he 
brought  down  the  first  draft  of  the  poem  of  John  Gilpin. 

The  new  friendship  rapidly  ripened,  and  I^ady  Austen  made 
up  her  mind  to  come  for  a  time  to  live  at  Olney.  She  took 
the  house  which  had  been  John  Newton's,  and  once  more  the 
garden  way  was  opened,  and  the  two  households  Hved  on 
terms  of  closest  intimacy.  "  From  a  scene  of  the  most  unin- 
terrupted retirement,"  Cowper  writes,  "  we  have  passed  at 
once  into  a  state  of  constant  engagement.  Not  that  our  society 
is  much  multiplied  ;  the  addition  of  an  individual  has  made  all 
this  difference.  I^ady  Austen  and  we  pass  our  days  alternately 
at  each  other's  chateau.  In  the  morning  I  walk  with  one  or 
other  of  the  ladies,  and  in  the  evening  wind  thread.    Thus  did 

379 


ENGLISH     LITERATURE 

Hercules,  and  thus  probably  did  Samson,  and  thus  do  I ;  and 
were  both  those  heroes  living,  I  should  not  fear  to  challenge  them 
to  a  trial  of  skill  in  that  business,  or  doubt  to  beat  them  both/' 
Before  long  I^ady  Austen  suggested  to  Cowper  that  he  should 
begin  another  long  poem,  and  should  try  his  hand  at  blank 
verse.  "  What  shall  I  write  about  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Oh,  you 
can  never  be  in  want  of  a  subject,  you  can  write  upon  any- 
thing. Write,"  she  said,  "  upon  this  sofa."  Cowper  accepted 
her  suggestion,  and  began  his  work.  He  called  it  The  Task, 
because,  as  he  wrote  in  his  opening  lines,  *'  The  Fair  commands 
the  song."  The  first  book  he  called  The  Sofa,  and  he  traced 
the  evolution  of  this  piece  of  furniture  from  three-legged  stools 
through  stools  with  four  legs,  cane-seated  chairs,  elbow  chairs, 
to  its  perfected  form  : 

So  slow 

The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ;  so  hard 

To  obtain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 

Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools. 

Convenience  next  suggested  elbow  chairs 

And  l/uxury  the  accomplish'd  Sofa  last. 

From  this  he  passed  to  those  who  used  the  sofa,  and  from 
thence,  by  a  somewhat  forced  transition,  to  those  who  have 
no  need  of  sofas,  but  can  wander  about  and  view  the  country 
as  they  please.  This  gave  him  an  opportunity  for  some  of 
those  pictures  of  country  scenes  in  which  he  is  always  at  his 
best.    All  the  little  details  are  noted  of  that  prospect  where  : 

Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted. 

The  moral  of  it  all,  and  indeed  of  the  whole  poem,  is  contained 
in  the  famous  passage  with  which  this  book  concludes,  and  which 
begins,  "  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town." 

The  second  book  is  called  The  Timepiece,  but  bears  little 
reference  to  its  title.  It  is  really  a  dissertation  on  patriotism 
and  good  government : 

lEngland,  with  all  they  faults,  I  love  thee  still. 
My  country  !   and  while  yet  a  nook  is  left, 
Where  Enghsh  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee. 
380 


THE    TASK 

Book  III  is  called  The  Garden.  Its  general  theme  is  domestic 
happiness,  and  it  treats  in  detail  those  outdoor  occupations 
by  means  of  which  a  dweller  in  the  country  can  pass  his  time 
profitably  and  happily.  Incidentally,  Cowper  tells  something 
of  his  own  life  and  fortunes  : 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 

lyong  since.     With  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd 

My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 

To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 

There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 

Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  his  side  he  bore. 

And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 

With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts. 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd  and  bade  me  live. 

Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 

And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 

My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene  ; 

With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  end  of  Book  III,  Cowper 
had  become  accustomed  to  his  new  medium  of  blank  verse, 
and  was  using  it  with  freedom  and  ease.  His  enthusiasm  was 
rising.  The  obligation  to  be  "  moral "  and  "  improving  " 
which  had  lain  so  heavily  upon  him  as  he  wrote  the  first  three 
books,  and  which  was  responsible  for  so  many  bald  passages 
was  lightening.  In  the  last  three  books  he  ventured  to  be  his 
own  natural  self  ;  and  the  results  are  delightful.  It  is  on 
these  three  books — The  Winter  Evening,  The  Winter  Morning 
Walk,  The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon,  that  his  reputation  as  the 
poet  who  led  the  revolt  against  the  artificial  school  of  Pope  is 
chiefly  founded.  For  pictures  of  simple,  common  scenes,  of 
homely  joys,  and  ordinary  occupations  there  never  had  been 
anything  like  these  poems  of  Cowper's.  The  country  round 
about  Olney  is,  as  has  been  said,  flat  and  uninteresting  ;  yet 
in  his  faithful,  loving  pictures  it  has  a  quiet  charm.  The  fresh 
air  of  heaven  blows  freely  over  it,  and  it  is  full  of  those  kindly 
human  associations  which  would  endear  any  landscape  to  our 
eyes.  The  care  given  to  each  trifling  detail,  the  simple  lucid 
language  which  so  faithfully  reproduces  what  the  eye  has  seen, 
the  spirit  of  quiet  enjoyment  shed  over  all — it  is  to  these  things 
that  Cowper's  poetry  owes  its  charm.    It  would  be  superfluous 

381 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

to  quote  here  the  most  noted  passages  in  the  last  three  books  j 
of  The  Task.  Everybody  knows  them,  and  they  are  given  in  ' 
every  book  of  selections  from  English  poetry.  Only  a  few  \ 
lines,  and  those  perhaps  the  best  known  in  the  whole  poem,  ; 
will  be  given  to  provide  the  background  against  which  we  may  I 
picture  Cowper  on  so  many,  many  evenings  of  his  quiet  life. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast,  j 

]>t  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn  j 

Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups,  j 

That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each,  ' 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in.  ^ 

0  Winter !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year,  ... 

1  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights,  i 
Fire-side  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 

The  Task  was  begun  in  the  summer  of  1783,  and  finished  ; 
before  the  end  of  1784.  In  1785  it  was  published,  and  the  ; 
recluse  of  Olney  suddenly  found  himself  famous.  The  friends  j 
he  had  left  in  the  busy  world  when,  so  many  years  ago,  he  had  | 
hidden  himself  in  his  country  retirement,  read  the  poem  with  \ 
surprise  and  delight.  From  them,  and  from  new  admirers,  : 
complimentary  letters  came  to  the  house  at  Olney.  Cowper,  ' 
had  he  wished,  might  have  become  a  lion  of  society,  but  he 
preferred  to  remain  in  the  seclusion  which  best  suited  his  ] 
habits  and  temperament.  He  was  delighted  with  the  fame  I 
The  Task  had  brought,  but  he  was  determined  not  to  depart  , 
from  the  principles  he  had  there  laid  down.  "  The  whole,*'  ' 
he  had  said,  "  has  one  tendency,  to  discountenance  the  modern  : 
enthusiasm  after  a  I^ondon  life,  and  to  recommend  rural  ease  j 
and  leisure  as  friendly  to  the  cause  of  piety  and  virtue."  And  < 
in  the  enjoyment  of  "  rural  ease  and  leisure  "  Cowper  resolved 
to  remain. 

One  of  the  old  friends  who  had  been  reintroduced  to 
Cowper  through  The  Task  was  his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh. 
Through  her  influence  Mrs.  Unwin  and  Cowper  removed  in 
1786  from  the  old  house  at  Olney  to  the  lodge  in  the  neigh- 
382 


THE    TASK 

bouring  park  at  Weston,  which  stood  in  a  higher  and  in  all 
respects  a  more  healthful  situation.  Here  life  became  brighter 
and  more  social,  and  the  two  friends  who  had  met  adversity- 
together,  now,  for  a  short  space,  enjoyed  a  common  prosperity. 
At  Weston  Cowper  wrote  many  of  the  short  poems  by  which 
he  is  best  remembered,  including  The  Loss  of  the  Royal  George, 
and  Alexander  Selkirk.  He  produced  no  more  long  poems,  but 
he  took  up  instead  a  translation  of  Homer,  which  kept  him 
happily  occupied  up  to  179 1. 

The  years  which  followed  1791  were  full  of  gloom.  Mrs. 
Unwinds  health  declined,  and  Cowper  was  called  upon  to  repay 
to  her  the  care  which,  in  the  days  of  his  own  distress  she  had 
lavished  on  him.  That  he  did  so  to  the  full  extent  of  his 
power,  with  grateful  heart  and  an  ungrudging  devotion,  his 
poem  To  Mary  bears  witness.  But  the  task  was  beyond  his 
strength,  his  fits  of  depression  increased,  and  once  more 
melancholia  attacked  him.  This  time  he  did  not  become 
actually  insane,  but  the  old  religious  terrors  and  dread  of 
damnation  returned,  and  he  sank  into  a  miserable  apathy 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  rouse  him.  Mrs.  Unwin  died 
in  1796,  and  the  kind  friends  who  had  gathered  round  Cowper 
did  their  best  to  make  his  remaining  years  happy.  But  the 
religious  gloom  never  really  lifted.  His  last  poem,  written  in 
1799,  was  The  Castaway,  in  which  he  compares  himself  to  a 
swimmer,  swept  away  from  friends  and  from  hope  of  help  by 
rough  and  angry  waves.  The  end  came  peacefully  at  last, 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  25th  of  April  1800,  the  gentle, 
tormented  spirit  passed  quietly  away. 

And  now  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming  tears  his  story. 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  darkness  on  the  glory. 
And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wandering  hghts  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken-hearted, — 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken. 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

Mrs.  Browning. 


383 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE    POEMS   OF    ROBERT    BURNS 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  year  1759  there  stood  on  the 
road  that  leads  from  the  town  of  Ayr  to  the  banks 
of  the  '  bonnie  Doon '  a  small  clay-built  cottage. 
Wilham  Burness,  a  poor  Scotch  gardener  had  built  it  with  his 
own  hands  as  a  home  for  himself  and  his  wife  ;  and  on  January 
25,  1759,  in  the  midst  of  a  wild  and  stormy  winter,  was  born 
there  their  eldest  son  Robert.  "  No  wonder/'  he  used  to  say 
in  after  life,  "  that  one  ushered  into  the  world  amid  such  a 
tempest  should  be  the  victim  of  stormy  passions."  In  the 
*'  auld  clay  biggin  "  Robert  grew  up  from  infancy  to  childhood. 
The  home  was  a  poor  one,  but  he,  with  the  brothers  and  sisters 
who  came  later  to  join  him  in  the  little  cottage,  were  not 
therefore  to  be  pitied.  They  grew  up  hearty  and  strong  on 
"  halesome  parritch,  chief  o*  Scotia's  food "  :  they  had  a 
careful,  tender  mother,  and  a  father  whom  they  remembered 
and  spoke  of  with  pride  all  their  lives  long.  He  was  one  of 
those  peasant-saints  who  are  Scotland's  glory,  and  the  fervour 
of  his  religious  feeling  ennobled  every  act  of  his  hard  and  toil- 
some life.  He  was  sober,  frugal  and  industrious,  with  keen 
intellectual  powers  and  a  reverence  for  learning  which  made 
him  eager  to  give  his  sons  every  educational  advantage  that 
he  could  possibly  obtain  for  them. 

When  Robert  was  nearly  seven  years  old  the  family  removed 
to  a  small  farm  at  Mount  Oliphant,  about  two  miles  from  the 
Brig  o'  Doon.  William  Burness  hoped  to  improve  his  poor 
fortunes  by  turning  from  gardening  to  farming.  But  the 
venture  was  an  unlucky  one.  The  most  severe  toil  and  rigid 
economy  were  necessary  to  wring  a  living  from  the  unproduc- 

384 


THE    POEMS    OF    ROBERT    BURNS 

tive  soil.  Robert  and  his  brother  Gilbert  were  forced  to  give 
their  help,  and  while  they  were  yet  growing  boys,  they  worked 
like  men.  The  good  father  grew  old  and  careworn  in  the 
struggle,  but  he  still  gave  anxious  thought  to  the  education  of 
his  boys.  He  and  four  of  his  neighbours  engaged  a  young 
schoolmaster,  named  Murdoch,  who  boarded  with  each  family 
in  turn,  and  received  a  small  salary  for  teaching  their  children. 
When  the  schoolmaster  left,  WilUam  Burness  taught  his 
children  himself,  giving  to  them  the  evening  hours  he  sorely 
needed  for  rest.  In  this  way  the  boys  received  a  sound  and 
thorough  Scotch  education.  "  Nothing,"  says  Gilbert  Burns, 
in  an  account  which  he  wrote  later  of  the  early  life  of  his 
celebrated  brother,  "  could  be  more  retired  than  our  general 
manner  of  living  ;  we  rarely  saw  anybody  but  the  members  of 
our  own  family.  .  .  .  My  father  was  for  some  time  almost 
the  only  companion  we  had.  He  conversed  famiUarly  on  all 
subjects  with  us,  as  if  we  had  been  men  ;  and  was  at  great 
pains,  as  we  accompanied  him  in  the  labours  of  the  farm,  to 
lead  the  conversation  to  such  subjects  as  might  tend  to  increase 
our  knowledge,  or  confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrowed 
Salmon's  Geographical  Grammar  for  us,  and  endeavoured  to 
make  us  acquainted  with  the  situation  and  history  of  the 
different  countries  in  the  world  ;  while,  from  a  book  society  in 
Ayr,  he  procured  for  us  the  reading  of  Derham's  Physico-  and 
Astro-Theology,  and  Ray's  Wisdom  of  God  in  the  Creation,  to 
give  us  some  idea  of  astronomy  and  natural  history.  Robert 
read  all  these  books  with  an  avidity  and  industry  scarcely  to 
be  equalled.  My  father  had  been  a  subscriber  to  Stackhouse's 
History  of  the  Bible.  From  this  Robert  collected  a  competent 
knowledge  of  ancient  history  ;  for  no  book  was  so  voluminous 
as  to  slacken  his  industry,  or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his 
researches."  Other  books  which  Robert  himself  speaks  of 
having  read  at  this  time  are  the  Life  of  Hannibal,  The  History 
of  Sir  William  Wallace,  some  odd  numbers  of  the  Spectator, 
some  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  Pope's  works,  including  his 
translation  of  Homer,  I^ocke  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
Richardson's  Pamela  and  Allan  Ramsay's  Poems.    These  are 

38s 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

not  the  books  we  should  expect  to  find  in  the  house  of  a  poor 
farmer,  but  the  Burness  family  were,  one  and  all,  eager  and 
intelligent  readers.  A  visitor  coming  into  the  farmhouse  of 
Mount  OHphant  one  day  at  dinner-time,  found  the  whole 
family  seated  with  a  spoon  in  one  hand  and  a  book  in  the 
other.  Many  a  wealthy  home  in  Edinburgh  had  less  of 
the  true  spirit  of  culture  than  was  to  be  found  in  the  poor 
farm-house  of  WilHam  Burness ;  and  side  by  side  with 
this  dwelt  the  spirit  of  loving-kindness,  of  tender  family 
affection,  of  reverence  for  all  things  holy  and  all  things 
pure. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  Robert  Burns  grew  up  ;  and  though 
he  had  many  hardships  to  bear,  though  hard  and  constant  toil 
and  meagre  food  told  on  his  health,  though  he  had  but  a 
scanty  wage  and  few  pleasures,  his  boyhood  and  youth  cannot 
have  been  so  altogether  unhappy  as  some  of  his  biographers 
have  represented  it.  Probably  he  thought  himself  unhappier 
than  he  really  was,  for  his  nature  was  hot  and  passionate,  and 
he  longed  for  the  prizes  and  the  pleasures  of  the  great  world 
which  lay  beyond  the  bare  moors  that  surrounded  his  home. 
Very  early  he  began  to  find  some  reHef  for  his  feelings  in 
poetry.  When  he  was  about  sixteen  he  came  across  a  book 
called  A  Select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  which  he  seized 
upon  with  eagerness.  Already  he  knew  most  of  the  songs  of 
Allan  Ramsay  by  heart,  and  this  new  collection  was  like 
a  great  store  of  gold  added  to  his  treasure.  "  I  pored 
over  them,"  he  says,  "  driving  my  cart,  or  walking  to  labour, 
song  by  song,  verse  by  verse ;  carefully  noting  the  true 
tender  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian.  I  am  con- 
vinced I  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic-craft,  such 
as  it  is." 

In  1777  the  Burness  family  moved  to  a  better  farm  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  River  Ayr,  and  things  became  a  little  more 
prosperous.  It  was  at  this  farm  of  lyochlea  that  Robert's 
song- writing,  at  which  he  had  before  made  some  attempts, 
began  to  show  the  fine  qualities  which  distinguish  his  greatest 
efforts.     Most  of  his  songs  were  love-songs,  for  Robert,  through- 

386 


Robert  Burns 

A.  Nasmyth 

Photo.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


386 


F 


THE  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

out  his  life,  was  most  susceptible  to  the  inspiration  given  by 
love.  "  My  heart,"  he  says,  "  was  completely  tinder,  and  was 
eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  another."  His  bright 
glowing  eyes,  gallant  manner,  and  ready  tongue,  made  him  a 
favourite  with  all  the  lasses  round  about  his  home,  and  several 
of  these  he  celebrated  in  his  early  verses. 

My  Nanie's  charming,  sweet,  an'  young  ; 

Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O  : 
May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 

That  wad  beguile  my  Nanie,  O. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true 

As  spotless  as  she's  bonie,  O  : 
The  op'ning  gowan,  wat  wi'  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nanie,  O. 

It  was  not  only  among  the  lasses,  however,  that  Robert  was 
popular.  His  brother  Gilbert  used  to  "  recall  with  delight  the 
days  when  they  had  to  go  with  one  or  two  companions  to  cut 
peats  for  the  winter  fuel,  because  Robert  was  sure  to  enliven 
their  toil  with  a  rattUng  fire  of  witty  remarks  on  men  and 
things,  mingled  with  the  expressions  of  a  genial  glowing  heart, 
and  the  whole  perfectly  free  from  the  taint  which  he  afterwards 
acquired  from  his  contact  with  the  world.  Not  even  in  those 
volumes  which  afterwards  charmed  his  country  from  end  to 
end,  did  Gilbert  see  his  brother  in  so  interesting  a  light  as  in 
these  conversations  in  the  bog,  with  only  two  or  three  noteless 
peasants  for  an  audience." 

The  brilHant  gifts  that  made  Robert  the  centre  of  interest 
wherever  he  went  led  him  at  last  into  temptation  which  he 
was  unable  to  resist.  In  the  summer  of  1781  he  and  his 
brother  Gilbert  went  to  the  town  of  Irvine,  to  learn  flax- 
dressing.  Here  Robert  fell  in  with  some  wild  companions, 
who  exercised  a  strong  influence  upon  him.  The  teaching  of 
his  home  was,  for  a  time,  forgotten.  He  shared  the  irregular 
and  dissipated  life  of  his  new  acquaintances,  and  learnt  to 
look  upon  the  reUgion  of  his  father  as  antiquated  and  ilUberal, 
and  to  pride  himself  upon  his  emancipation  from  beliefs  which 
now  seemed  to  him  cramping  prejudices.  The  effect  of  this 
stay  at  Irvine  was  to  change  the  character  of  his  life.    Hence- 

387 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

forward  the  deterioration  was  slow,  but  steady,  though  it  was 
interrupted  by  fits  of  deep  and  sincere  penitence  and  earnest  j 
resolutions  of  amendment. 

In  1784  William  Burness  died,  troubled,  as  we  read,  upon  | 
his  death-bed  with  fears  for  the  future  of  his  eldest  son,  whose  I 
brilliant  genius  and  weak  moral  nature  he  had  early  recognized. 
Robert  felt  his  father's  loss  acutely,  and  made  many  resolutions  i 
to  be  steady  and  industrious,  the  mainstay  of  his  widowed  ; 
mother  and  his  sisters.     But  the  ill-success  of  a  farming  experi-  ' 
ment  which  he  made  in  partnership  with  his  brother  Gilbert  j 
disheartened  him,  and  in  the  recklessness  of  his  disappoint- 
ment he  returned  to  his  old  evil  habits.    The  poems  written 
during  this  period  show  clearly  how  far  he  had  drifted  from  \ 
the  godly  teaching  and  the  noble  ideals  of  his  dead  father,  j 
Personal  ill-feeling  against  his  own  parish  minister  led  him  to  i 
make  a  fierce  attack  upon  the  Church  as  a  whole,  and  in  a. 
series  of  poems — The  Twa  Herds,  Holy  Willie* s  Prayer,  The\ 
Ordination,  and  the  Holy  Fair — he  used  all  his  powers  of  wit : 
and  sarcasm  against  the  clergy  of  that  party  known  in  Scotland  ; 
as  the  Auld  I^ights.     It  has  been  said  that  Burns  attacked  not  \ 
the  Church,  but  its  abuses,  and  this,  to  a  certain  extent,  is  true. 
But  he  did  his  work  so  recklessly,  was  so  careless  in  his  handling  ^ 
of  holy  things,  and  showed  altogether  such  a  want  of  reverence  ; 
and  even  of  decency,  that  the  poems  served  to  increase  his] 
aheady  bad  reputation  even  while  they  raised  his  poetic; 
fame. 

Yet  almost  at  the  time  that  he  was  writing  them  he; 
was  meditating  that  beautiful  tribute  to  his  father's  religion ! 
which  he  enshrined  in  his  Cottar*  s  Saturday  Night,  and  was ; 
experiencing  those  patriotic  heart-stirrings  which  made  him; 
long  to  do  something  for  the  country  of  which  he  was  so  I 
proud.  In  him  pure  and  lofty  impulses,  though  they  could  i 
not  overcome  the  temptations  that  debased  him,  could  not  be  1 
themselves  overcome.  *'  Obscure  I  am,  obscure  I  must  be,"  1 
he  wrote  in  his  commonplace  book,  August  1784,  "  though  noj 
young  poet  nor  young  soldier's  heart  ever  beat  more  fondly  1 
for  fame  than  mine,"  and,  at  a  later  date  in  his  career,  he 

388  i 


THE  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

expressed  the  feelings  that  at  this  time  possessed  him  still 
more  finely  in  verse  : 

E'en  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast. 
That  I  for  poor  Auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  beuk  could  make. 

Or  sing  a  song  at  least. 

The  years  1784-86,  which  were  marked  by  the  rapid  de- 
terioration of  the  poet's  moral  character,  were  marked  also  by 
the  production  of  some  of  his  finest  verse.  The  two  well- 
known  lyrics  To  a  Mouse  and  To  a  Daisy,  were  suggested 
by  the  incidents  of  his  daily  work.  Two  love  affairs,  both 
unfortunate,  inspired  respectively  the  lovely  songs,  (J  a*  the 
airts  the  wind  can  blaw,  and  Highland  Mary.  These,  and  many 
others,  were  written  in  the  garret  bedroom  which  Robert 
shared  with  his  brother  Gilbert.  "  The  farmhouse  of  Moss- 
giel,"  says  his  biographer.  Chambers,  "  which  still  exists 
almost  unchanged  since  the  days  of  the  poet,  is  very  small, 
consisting  of  only  two  rooms,  a  but  and  a  ben,  as  they  are 
called  in  Scotland.  Over  these,  reached  by  a  trap  stair,  is  a 
small  garret,  in  which  Robert  and  his  brother  used  to  sleep. 
Thither,  when  he  had  returned  from  his  day's  work,  the  poet 
used  to  retire,  and  seat  himself  at  a  small  deal  table,  lighted 
by  a  narrow  skyhght  in  the  roof,  to  transcribe  the  verses 
which  he  had  composed  in  the  fields.  His  favourite  time  for 
composition  was  at  the  plough.  I^ong  years  afterward  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Begg,  used  to  tell  how  when  her  brother  had  gone 
forth  again  to  field-work,  she  would  steal  up  to  the  garret  and 
search  the  drawer  of  the  deal  table  for  the  verses  which  Robert 
had  newly  transcribed." 

By  1786  Burns  had  given  up  all  hope  of  making  his  farming 
a  success.  I^ife  at  Mossgiel  had  become  intolerable  to  him. 
His  conduct  had  been  openly  censured  by  the  minister ;  his 
neighbours  regarded  him  as  a  reprobate  of  the  worst  kind  ; 
"  Highland  Mary,"  whom  he  seems  to  have  truly  loved,  was 
dead  ;  to  his  other  love,  Jean  Armour,  he  had  been  cruel  and 
faithless.     "  I  have  been,"  Burns  wrote  to  one  of  his  friends, 

389 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

"  for  some  time  pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes 
which  you  pretty  well  know — the  pang  of  disappointment,  the 
sting  of  pride,  with  some  wandering  stabs  of  remorse,  which 
never  fail  to  settle  on  my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is 
not  called  away  by  the  calls  of  society  or  the  vagaries  of  the  Muse. 
Even  in  the  hour  of  social  mirth,  my  gaiety  is  the  madness  of 
an  intoxicated  criminal  under  the  hands  of  the  executioner." 

The  only  means  of  escape  seemed  to  lie  in  leaving  Scotland 
for  a  distant  country.  After  some  time  spent  in  fruitless 
efforts  to  arrange  this,  Burns  at  last  obtained  a  post  as  overseer 
on  a  negro  plantation  in  Jamaica.  In  order  to  raise  money 
for  the  expenses  of  the  voyage,  he  resolved  to  pubHsh  his 
poems  by  subscription.  In  July  1786  the  book  was  issued  by 
a  printer  of  Kilmarnock,  and  it  at  once  made  Burns  famous. 
"  Old  and  young,  high  and  low,  grave  and  gay,  learned  or 
ignorant,  were  alike  delighted,  agitated,  transported. 
Ploughboys  and  maidservants  would  have  gladly  bestowed 
the  wages  they  earned  most  hardly  and  which  they  wanted  to 
purchase  necessary  clothing,  if  they  might  procure  the  works 
of  Burns."  The  fame  of  the  book  reached  Edinburgh,  at  this 
time  a  great  centre  of  culture,  and  many  of  the  prominent 
men  gathered  there  felt  a  strong  desire  to  see  the  Ayrshire 
ploughman  who  had  written  so  wonderfully.  One  of  these, 
Dugald  Stewart,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  whose  classes 
at  Edinburgh  University  young  Walter  Scott  was  at  that  time 
attending,  had  already  met  Burns,  in  Ayrshire,  and  had  been 
delighted  with  his  manly,  modest  bearing  and  good  sense  no 
less  than  with  his  poetry.  The  bhnd  poet,  Dr.  Blacklock,  who 
also  belonged  to  the  innermost  circle  of  Edinburgh's  learned 
men  was  enthusiastic  in  his  praise  of  the  Kilmarnock  volume. 
A  letter  written  by  him  came  into  Burns's  hands,  and  this  it 
was,  as  he  tells  us,  that  overthrew  all  his  schemes  by  opening 
up  new  prospects  to  his  poetic  ambition. 

The  voyage  to  Jamaica  was  given  up,  and  Burns  resolved  to 
try  his  fortune  in  Edinburgh.  His  two  days'  journey  thither 
was  like  a  triumphal  progress  ;  at  each  inn  on  the  road 
admirers  gathered  and  gave  him  the  heartiest  reception. 
Arrived  in  Edinburgh  he  settled  at  the  house  of  a  humble 

390 


THE  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 
friend  from  Ayrshire,  but  soon  the  great  men  of  the  city  found 
him  out.  Burns  became  the  lion  of  Edinburgh  society. 
Every  house  opened  to  him.  The  Earl  of  Glencairn  met  him 
in  a  spirit  of  kindliest  friendship  ;  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  and 
other  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  and  fashion  declared  that  his 
conversation  "  took  them  off  their  feet."  The  great  lights  of 
the  legal  profession,  which  formed  so  important  a  part  of 
Edinburgh  society,  treated  him  with  the  greatest  respect  and 
consideration.  Through  all  this  adulation  Burns's  native  good 
sense  bore  him  with  safety  and  dignity.  He  never  pretended 
to  be  other  than  he  was.  He  wore  the  dress  suited  to  his 
class,  a  suit  of  blue  and  buff,  with  buckskins  and  topped  boots, 
in  which  he  looked  like  a  farmer  in  his  Sunday  best.  He  never 
condescended  to  flatter  the  great  lords  and  ladies  who  gathered 
round  him,  and  he  made  it  quite  clear  by  his  behaviour  that 
he  accepted  their  hospitaUty  as  offered  not  to  an  inferior,  but 
to  an  equal. 

The  most  interesting  incident  connected  with  this  Edinburgh 
visit  was  the  meeting  between  Burns  and  Walter  Scott,  who 
was  then  a  lad  of  fifteen.  They  met  at  the  house  of  Professor 
Fergusson,  and  Scott  has  recorded  his  impression  of  the  elder 
poet.  "  His  person  was  strong  and  robust ;  his  manners 
rustic,  not  clownish ;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and  sim- 
plicity, which  received  part  of  its  effect  perhaps  from  one's 
knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  talents.  ...  I  would  have 
taken  the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what  he  was,  for  a  very 
sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch  school — the  '  douce 
gudeman*  who  held  his  own  plough.  There  was  a  strong 
expression  of  sense  and  shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments  ;  the 
eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  and  tem- 
perament. It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  and  glowed  (I 
say  literally  glowed)  when  he  spoke  with  feeUng  or  interest.  I 
never  saw  such  another  eye  in  a  human  head,  though  I  have 
seen  the  most  distinguished  men  in  my  time." 

A  new  edition  of  the  poems  was  pubUshed  in  April  1787. 
The  list  of  subscribers  included  many  of  the  most  famous 
names  in  Scotland.  From  the  Kilmarnock  edition  he  had 
received  £20  ;  the  proceeds  of  the  Edinburgh  volume  exceeded 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

;f500.  To  Burns  this  was  a  fortune,  and,  wisely  applied, 
might  have  laid  the  foundation  of  a  lasting  prosperity.  Some 
of  it  he  spent  on  tours  in  the  Highlands  which  occupied  the 

rest  of  the  year  1787.    He  gave  £180  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  j 

and  with  what  was  left  he  bought  and  stocked  the  farm  of  j 

Ellisland,  in  Nithsdale,  near  Dumfries.    In  April  1788  he  was  ' 

reconciled  to,  and  married  Jean  Armour,  and  the  two  began  \ 
their  life  at  Ellisland. 

But  the  new  farming  venture  was  no  more  successful  than  j 

the  old  had  been.    Habits  of  dissipation  had  taken  a  strong  ' 
hold  on  Burns,  and  he  was  incapable  of  the  steady  regular 

application    which    his    position    required.     His    farm-hands  j 

followed  their  master's  example  and  spent  much  of  their  time  ' 

in  idleness  and  merry-making.     The  family  depended  mainly  i 

on  Burns' s  salary  as  an  excise  officer,  an  appointment  given  to  | 

him  through  the  influence  of  some  of  his  Edinburgh  friends,  i 

Its  duties  took  him  constantly  away  from  his  home,  and  \ 
increased  his  unsettled   habits.     His  fame   attracted   many 
visitors  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Elhsland,  and  messengers 
were  often  sent  to  the  farm  asking  him  to  dine  with  his  admirers 
at   some   neighbouring   tavern.     Then   followed   a   night   of 

merry-making   and  days   of  repentant   misery.     Poor   meek  ' 

Jean  Armour  and  her  children  had  but  a  sorry  time  ;    life  at  , 
Ellisland  had  now  few  of  the  *  golden  days '    to   which  the 

poet  had  looked  forward  when,  in  the  summer  of  1788,  he  I 

had  journeyed  through  the  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  of  | 

Nithsdale  to  his  new  farm  like  "  a  May-frog,  leaping  across  [ 

the  newly  harrowed  ridge.'*  ! 

The  darkening,  anxious  years,  however,  saw  a  revival  of  i 

Burns's  poetic  energy.     Throughout  the  brilliant  Edinburgh  ■ 

period  he  had  written  nothing,  and  even  the  lovely  scenery  of  ] 

the  Highlands  had  afforded  no  inspiration.     But  now  songs  I 

came  readily  and  quickly.     Some  were  drinking  songs  like  the  ! 

inimitable :  \ 


O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut. 
And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see  ; 
Three  bl3rtlier  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  ua  found  in  Christendie. 


392 


THE  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

which  commemorated  a  merry  meeting  between  Burns  and 
his  friends  Allan  Masterton  and  William  Nicol.  Some  are 
sad  and  tender,  like  the  lovely  lyrics  in  memory  of  the  never- 
forgotten  "  Highland  Mary."  On  the  anniversary  of  her 
death  Burns  wrote  : 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray. 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  mom. 
Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary  1   dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

Other  Bllisland  songs  are  John  Anderson  my  Jo,  John, 
Auld  Lang  Syne,  The  Silver  Tassie  and  The  Banks  o*  Boon. 
Burns  meditated  writing  a  great  dramatic  work,  but  the 
sustained  effort  necessary  for  this  was  beyond  his  powers. 
His  longest  poem,  and  one  of  his  finest  was  the  Tale  of  Tarn  o* 
Shanfer,  composed,  as  he  tells  us,  in  a  state  of  joyful  excitement 
one  day  in  the  autumn  of  1790. 

By  1 79 1  Burns  had  resolved  to  leave  Ellisland,  and  in 
August  the  sale  of  the  farm  took  place  and  the  family  moved 
to  Dumfries.  The  history  of  the  poet's  life  in  his  town  home 
is  a  history  of  continued  deterioration,  though  his  poetic 
genius  shone  almost  as  brightly  as  ever.  The  years  between 
1791  and  1796  saw  the  production  of  Aefond  kiss,  0  my  luve's 
like  a  red,  red  rose,  0  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast.  She  is  a  win- 
some wee  thing,  Scots  wha  hae  wi*  Wallace  bled,  and  the  fine 
A  Man's  a  Man  for  a*  That, 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by. 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that  I 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp  ; 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

Toward  the  end  of  1795  the  poet's  health  began  to  fail. 
Hard  drinking  and  constant  excitement  brought  their  natural 
results,  and  when  in  January  1796,  after  a  long  carouse  he  fell 

2C  393 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

asleep  in  the  open  air  on  a  bitter  winter's  night,  his  enfeebled 
frame  was  unable  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  the  exposure. 
Rheumatic  fever  set  in,  and  after  an  illness  of  some  months 
Robert  Burns  died  on  July  21,  1796.  In  his  own  Bard's 
Epitaph,  written  ten  years  before,  he  had  provided  the  words 
in  which  his  career  can  best  be  summed  up  and  its  moral  read  : 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow. 

And  softer  flame  ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stained  his  name. 

Reader,  attend  !  Whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flight  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkening  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root 


394 


Early  Nineteenth  Century 

THE  great  influence  affecting  literature  during  this 
period  was  the  French  Revolution.  The  revolt  from 
the  school  of  Pope  reached  its  highest  point  and  the 
modern  school  of  poetry  was  established.  Poetry  of  the  very 
highest  order  was  produced.  The  novel  attained  a  fuller 
development  in  the  hands  of  Jane  Austen  and  Walter  Scott, 
while  I^amb,  Hazlitt,  I/cigh  Hunt  and  other  contributors  to 
the  periodicals  of  the  day  gave  vogue  to  the  modern  '  essay.' 


I 


395 


CHAPTER  XLI 
THE   LYRICAL   BALLADS 

WB  have  watched  the  new  spirit  in  English  poetry- 
gathering  strength  through  the  works  of  Thomson, 
Collins,  Gray,  Chatterton,  Blake,  Cowper  and  Burns. 
We  come  now  to  the  two  poets  in  whom  it  found  its  fullest 
and  most  perfect  development — William  Wordsworth  and 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  These  two,  who  were  to  join  in 
producing  a  book  that  marks  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
English  poetry,  were  born  and  bred  at  opposite  ends  of  England 
— Wordsworth  in  the  northern  I^ake  District,  and  Coleridge  in 
the  beautiful  southern  county  that  has  given  us  so  many 
famous  Englishmen — the  county  of  Devon.  Wordsworth,  the 
elder  by  two  years,  came  of  a  family  long  settled  in  Westmor- 
land, and  was  himself,  throughout  his  life,  a  dalesman  in 
sympathy  and  habits.  He  had  the  same  home-loving  nature, 
shrewd  simplicity  and  unbending  pride  that  characterized 
his  poorer  neighbours,  and  he  never  acquired  that  superficial 
polish  which  sometimes  obscures  native  qualities.  When  he 
was  in  his  fourteenth  year,  his  father  died,  and  William  was 
left  to  the  care  of  his  two  uncles.  All  his  schooldays  were 
spent  in  Westmorland,  and  in  his  autobiographical  poem.  The 
Prelude,  he  tells  what  the  beauty  of  the  surrounding  country 
did  for  him  in  his  boyish  years  : 

What  spring  and  autumn,  what  the  winter  snows, 
And  what  the  summer  shade,  what  day  and  night, 
Bvening  and  morning,  sleep  and  waking,  thought 
From  sources  inexhaustible,  poured  forth 
To  feed  the  spirit  of  reUgious  love 
In  which  I  walked  with  Nature. 

397 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Ye  mountains,  and  ye  lakes 
And  sounding  cataracts,  ye  mists  and  winds 
That  dwell  among  the  hills  where  I  was  bom, 
If  in  my  youth  I  have  been  pure  in  heart. 
If,  mingUng  with  the  world,  I  am  content 
With  my  own  modest  pleasures,  and  have  lived 
With  God  and  Nature  communing,  removed 

From  httle  enmities  and  low  desires 

The  gift  is  yours. 

.  .  .  'Tis  yours. 
Ye  motmtains  !  thine,  O  Nature  !     Thou  hast  fed 
My  lofty  speculations  ;   and  in  thee, 
For  this  uneasy  heart  of  ours,  I  find 
A  never-failing  principle  of  joy 
And  purest  passion. 

Cowper  and  Burns  loved  Nature,  but  the  love  could  not 
sustain  and  comfort  Cowper,  or  ennoble  the  life  of  Burns.  For 
Wordsworth  it  could,  and  did,  do  both  these  things.  For  him 
Nature  had  not  only  a  fair  and  beautiful  body,  but  a  great 
informing  soul.  Other  poets,  it  is  true,  from  the  time  of 
Milton,  had  recognized  that  behind  the  beauty  of  the  world 
was  the  spirit  of  God,  worlpng,  creating,  and  sustaining.  But 
to  none  had  this  truth  come  home  with  the  force  and  intimacy 
that  it  came  to  Wordsworth.  No  poet  before  him  had  seen 
in  Nature  the  special  medium  through  which  God  communi- 
cates with  His  people — teaches  them,  guides  them,  reproves 
and  encourages  them.  Wordsworth  loved  a  flower,  not 
primarily  because  it  was  beautiful  in  colour  and  in  form,  or 
because  it  was  wonderfully  made,  but  because  he  saw  in  it  a 
spark  of  the  Divine  spirit  that  claimed  his  reverence  ;  the 
glory  of  the  messenger  was  lost  in  the  greater  glory  of  the 
message.  It  is  this  feeling  which  gives  to  Wordsworth's 
poetry  its  characteristic  value,  and  it  is  this  which  causes  him 
to  deal  in  so  many  of  his  poems  with  subjects  that  may  seem 
common  and  even  mean.  For  him  nothing  was  mean,  for  in 
all  was  the  spirit  of  God. 

Meanwhile,  Coleridge,  too,  was  being  shaped  for  his  life's 
work.  He  was  the  son  of  the  vicar  of  Ottery  St.  Mary,  and 
the  youngest  of  a  family  of  thirteen.  From  his  earUest  years 
he  was  a  marvellously  precocious  child.  "  I  never  played," 
he  says,  "  except  by  myself,  and  then  only  acting  over  what  I 

398 


S.   T.  Coleridge 

Washington'AUston,  A.R.A. 

Fhoto.  Emery  Walker  Ltd.] 


398 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

had  been  reading  or  fancying,  or  half  one  and  half  the  other, 
cutting  down  weeds  and  nettles  with  a  stick,  as  one  of  the 
seven  champions  of  Christendom.  Alas  !  I  had  all  the  sim- 
plicity, all  the  docility  of  the  little  child,  but  none  of  the 
child's  habits.  I  never  thought  as  a  child — never  had  the 
language  of  a  child."  Before  he  was  ten  years  old  he  wrote 
verses  which  were  surprisingly  good  for  a  child  of  his  age.  At 
ten  he  left  the  quiet  Devonshire  village,  and  came  up  to 
London  to  Christ's  Hospital.  Here,  as  part  of  his  school 
course,  he  studied  the  works  of  the  great  English  poets  closely 
and  minutely,  under  the  guidance  of  "  a  very  sensible  though 
at  the  same  time  a  very  severe  master."  He  became,  as  he 
tells  us,  above  par  in  English  versification,  and  produced  two 
or  three  compositions  "  somewhat  above  mediocrity."  But 
soon  he  was  drawn  from  the  study  of  poetry  by  another 
pursuit  that  took  entire  possession  of  him.  "At  a  very 
premature  age,  even  before  my  fifteenth  year,  I  had  bewil- 
dered myself  in  metaphysics,  and  in  theological  controversy. 
Nothing  else. pleased  me.  History,  and  particular  facts,  lost 
all  interest  in  my  mind.  .  .  .  Poetry  itself,  yea  novels  and 
romances,  became  insipid  to  me."  Charles  I^amb,  who  was 
Coleridge's  schoolfellow  at  Christ's  Hospital,  describes  some 
occasions  upon  which  the  tall,  commanding-looking  schoolboy 
with  his  long  black  hair  and  pale  face,  astonished  all  his  hearers 
by  his  eloquence.  "  How  have  I  seen,"  writes  I^amb,  "  the 
casual  passer  through  the  cloisters  stand  still,  entranced  with 
admiration  (while  he  weighed  the  disproportion  between  the 
speech  and  the  garb  of  the  young  Mirandula),  to  hear  thee 
unfold  in  thy  deep  and  sweet  intonations  the  mysteries  of 
lambUchus  or  Plotinus  (for  even  in  those  years  thou  waxedst 
not  pale  at  such  philosophic  draughts)  or  reciting  Homer  in 
the  Greek,  or  Pindar,  while  the  walls  of  the  old  Grey  Friars 
re-echoed  with  the  accents  of  the  inspired  charity-hoy'* 

From  this  preoccupation  in  metaphysics  Coleridge  was 
recalled  by  reading  the  sonnets  of  William  lyisle  Bowles,  a 
minor  poet  of  the  day.  These  sonnets  are  fresh  and  natural, 
but  show  no  great  poetic  power,  atid  it  is  difficult  to  see  why 

399 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

they  should  have  exerted  so  powerful  an  influence  over  such 
a  nature  as  Coleridge's.  He  was,  he  tells  us,  "  enthusiastically 
delighted  and  inspired  "  by  these  poems,  and  through  their 
influence  he  resumed  the  practice  of  poetical  composition, 
which  he  had  for  several  years  neglected 

When  Coleridge  went  up  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  in 
1791,  Wordsworth  was  just  leaving  St.  John's  College,  of  the 
same  University  The  three  years  he  had  spent  there  had 
given  him  a  fresh  store  of  beautiful  mental  images,  but  in  all 
other  respects  he  had  changed  little.  His  appearance  was 
still  heavy  and  somewhat  rustic,  his  manner  reserved  and 
austere.  The  intense  inner  life  of  communion  with  Nature, 
of  which  in  his  boyhood  he  had  become  so  keenly  conscious, 
had  strengthened  with  the  years,  and  his  inclination  toward 
a  life  of  studious  retirement  had  strengthened  too.  It  was 
necessary,  however,  that  he  should  do  something  to  earn  his 
own  living,  but  over  the  choice  of  a  profession  he  lingered  and 
hesitated.  For  a  few  months  he  lived  in  I/Ondon,  wandering 
about  its  streets  and  meditating  on  his  career ;  toward  the 
end  of  the  year  he  went  to  France,  meaning  to  spend  the 
winter  in  learning  the  French  language.  Here  he  found  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  the  great  Revolution  movement  of  which, 
at  home,  he  had  calmly  and  temperately  approved.  But  his 
lukewarmness  changed  to  a  burning  enthusiasm  when  he  met 
and  talked  with  some  of  those  ardent  spirits  to  whom  the 
Revolution  seemed  the  hope  of  the  world.  He  dreamed, 
indeed,  of  taking  an  active  part  as  a  leader  in  the  great  move- 
ment ;  but  his  friends  at  home  grew  alarmed,  his  allowance 
was  stopped,  and  very  unwillingly  he  returned  to  England  at 
the  end  of  1792. 

But  the  ideals  of  the  Revolution  still  possessed  him,  and  he 
watched  with  passionate  interest  the  course  which  affairs  were 
taking  in  France.  The  excesses  of  its  later  stages,  and  more 
especially  the  murder  of  the  king  shook  his  beHef  in  the  moral 
grandeur  and  regenerating  power  of  the  movement,  I^ower 
and  lower  sank  his  hopes  through  the  terrible  years  that 
followed  his  return  to  England,  until  at  last  came  the  agonizing 
400 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

realization  that  it  was  no  reign  of  Universal  Brotherhood  that 
was  dawning  on  the  world  but  a  reign  of  tyranny  and  selfish 
lust  of  power.  For  a  time  he  lost  heart  and  hope.  He  saw 
man  as  a  being  unable  to  tell  good  from  evil,  loyal  to  no  law 
that  might  deliver  him  from  his  lower  self,  but  ever  driven 
unresisting  "  as  selfish  passion  urged  "  until  he  became  "  the 
dupe  of  folly,  or  the  slave  of  crime."  It  was  only  very  slowly 
that  this  mood  of  despair  passed  from  him.  When  his  soul 
had  reached  its  '  last  and  lowest  ebb,' 


Then  it 

Thanks  to  the  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good  ! — 
That  the  belovdd  Sister  in  whose  sight 
Those  days  were  passed,  .  .  . 
Maintained  for  me  a  saving  intercourse 
With  my  tnie  self  ;    .  .  . 

She  whispered  still  that  brightness  would  return, 
She,  in  the  midst  of  all,  preserved  me  still 
A  Poet,  made  me  seek  beneath  that  name, 
And  that  alone,  my  office  upon  earth  ; 

.  .  .  Nature's  self 
By  all  varieties  of  human  love 
Assisted,  led  me  back  through  opening  day 
To  those  sweet  coimsels  between  head  and  heart 
Whence  grew  that  genuine  knowledge,  fraught  with  peace, 
W^hich,  through  the  later  sinkings  of  this  cause. 
Hath  still  upheld  me,  and  upholds  me  now. 

This  was  the  greatest  spiritual  crisis  through  which  Words- 
worth ever  passed.  His  sister  Dorothy,  who  had  helped  him 
in  his  need,  was  from  this  time  forward  the  poet's  constant 
companion.  She  was,  in  feeling,  as  true  a  poet  as  he  himself 
was.  Her  nature  was  singularly  ardent  and  affectionate  and 
her  devotion  to  her  brother  was  complete.  She  guarded  him, 
as  far  as  was  in  her  power,  from  worldly  cares  and  troubles, 
and  made  the  life  of  studious  leisure  for  which  he  longed, 
possible  for  him.  Wordsworth  loved  his  sister  tenderly,  and 
over  and  over  again  in  his  poems  acknowledged  the  deep  debt 
he  owed  her. 

The  plan  of  living  together  in  some  simple  country  cottage 
had  been  in  the  minds  of  the  two  for  several  years  before 
a  fortunate  circumstance  made  it  possible.  A  friend  and 
admirer  of  Wordswortb'3,  Mr.  Raisley  Calvert,  left  him  in 

401 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  \ 

1794  a  legacy  of  £900.  This  he  laid  out  in  an  annuity,  upon  I 
which  the  frugal  management  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth  made  I 
it  possible  for  the  two  to  live.  They  settled  down  in  a  cottage  ' 
at  Racedown,  in  Dorsetshire,  and  Wordsworth  began  in ; 
earnest  his  poetic  career.  It  was  at  Racedown  that  the^ 
memorable  friendship  with  Coleridge  began.  ; 

The  years  which  had  been  so  bare  of  actual  events  and  so  ' 
full  of  spiritual  experiences  for  Wordsworth  had  brought  great  1 
changes  to  Coleridge.     He  had  taken  up  his  university  life  ^ 
with  some  enthusiasm,   though  his   method   of  study  was  ^ 
'  desultory   and   capricious.'       "  His   room   was   a   constant  i 
rendezvous  for  conversation-loving  friends  "  who  felt  astonish-  ; 
ment  similar  to  that  of  his  Christ's  Hospital  associates  at  his  | 
wonderful  powers  of  declamation.     In  1793  Coleridge,  through  \ 
troubles  connected  either  with  love  or  with  money,  suddenly  '. 
disappeared  from  the  University  and  enUsted  as  a  private  in 
the  Light  Dragoons  under  the  name  of  Silas  Titus  Comberbach 
(S.T.C.).    After  four   months,   his  scholarship   having   been 
discovered  by  one  of  the  officers,  he  was  bought  out  by  his 
friends,  and  was  allowed  to  return  to  Cambridge.     In  1794, 
during  a  visit  to  Oxford,  he  met  Robert  Southey,  the  poet. 
Coleridge  was  at  this  time  possessed,  as  Wordsworth  had  been, 
by   the   ideals   of   the   French   Revolution.     His   republican 
passion  was  far  more  violent  than  that  of  the  steadier,  sounder- 
natured  Wordsworth,  and  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  wild  and 
impracticable  projects.     He  was  in  a  state  of  mind  that  made 
him  quite  ready  to  take  up  with  enthusiasm  the  ideas  that 
were  at  that  time  occupying  the  minds  of  Southey  and  his 
friend  Robert  Lovell.     The  two  had  married  sisters,  Mary  and 
Edith  Fricker,  and  designed,  with  them,  to  form  a  community 
on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  which  community  should 
be  a  perfect  society  of  kindred  souls,  who  should  have  all 
things  in  common.     The  name  they  gave  to  the  doctrine  on 
which  this  scheme  was  based  was  Pantisocrasy.     Coleridge  at 
once  became  an  ardent  Pantisocrat.     He  engaged  himself  to 
the  third  sister  of  the  Fricker  family,  Sarah,  induced,  as  some 
say,  by  genuine  passion,  or  as  is  held  by  others,  by  a  misguided 
402 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

impulse.  The  great  scheme  was  never  realized,  owing  chiefly 
to  lack  of  funds,  but  it  had  a  considerable  influence  on 
Coleridge's  development.  He  began  at  this  time  his  part  of 
the  drama  The  Fall  of  Robespierre,  to  which  Southey  and 
lyovell  also  contributed,  and  he  delivered  a  series  of  lectures 
on  the  French  Revolution  at  Bristol.  His  enthusiasm  for  the 
Revolution,  however,  soon  began  to  cool ;  as  it  had  been  more 
violent  than  that  of  Wordsworth,  so  its  effects  were  less  lasting. 
A  new  scheme  now  occupied  him.  In  October  1795  he  married 
Miss  Sarah  Fricker,  and  the  two  settled  down  in  a  cottage  at 
Clevedon,  amid  the  most  beautiful  scenery,  and  within  sound 
of  the  sea.  There  was  about  an  acre  and  a  half  of  ground 
attached  to  the  cottage,  and  this  Coleridge  designed  to  culti- 
vate, and  to  support  himself  and  his  wife  on  the  produce.  They 
were  to  live  in  the  simplest  fashion,  with  no  servant  and  no 
society.  Three  happy  months  seem  to  have  followed,  and  the 
poem  The  Moliayi  Harp,  which  Coleridge  wrote  at  this  time, 
breathes  the  very  spirit  of  joy  : 

Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible 
Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  so  filled ; 
Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air 
Is  Music  slumbering  on  her  instrument. 

But,  as  might  have  been  expected,  money  soon  began  to 
fail,  and  Coleridge  found  himself  obhged  to  turn  once  more  to 
literary  work  for  a  means  of  living.  He  wrote  many  poems, 
filled,  all  of  them,  with  the  ardour  and  extravagance  of  his  hot 
youth,  and  these,  with  his  earlier  verses,  were  collected  and 
published  in  1797.  In  1796  he  essayed  journalism,  and  planned 
the  publication  of  a  paper  for  the  propagation  of  the  ideas 
that  possessed  him.  The  paper  was  to  be  called  The  Watch- 
man, and  was  to  advocate  Universal  I^iberty,  Unitarianism, 
and  a  vast  number  of  other  doctrines  connected  with  religion, 
politics  and  education.  Coleridge's  account,  in  his  Biographia 
Literaria  of  the  tour  which  he  made  in  the  north  of  England 
for  the  purpose  of  gaining  subscribers  to  his  paper  is  a  most 
delightful  piece  of  finely  humorous  writing.  The  project,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say,  failed  completely 


( 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ] 

Early  in  1797  Coleridge  removed  to  a  cottage  at  Nether] 
Stowey  in  Somersetshire,  which  a  friend  and  admirer  of  hisi 
genius,  Mr.  Thomas  Poole,  had  placed  at  his  disposal.  Here] 
he  was  visited  by  Charles  and  Mary  I^amb,  and  from  here  he] 
started  on  his  own  memorable  visit  to  the  Wordsworths,  | 
walking  from  Nether  Stowey  by  Bridgewater  to  Racedown.  i 
He  had  for  some  years  been  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Words- j 
worth's  poems,  and  personal  acquaintance  ripened  this  admira- ; 
tion  into  affection.  Coleridge  soon  formed  a  close  friendship; 
with  Wordsworth  and  with  his  '  exquisite  sister.'  Dorothy ; 
Wordsworth's  impressions  of  this  new  friend  must  be  given  in  \ 
her  own  words  :  "  He  is  a  wonderful  man.  His  conversation; 
teems  with  soul,  mind,  and  spirit.  Then  he  is  so  benevolent, . 
so  good-tempered  and  cheerful,  and,  like  William,  interests: 
himself  so  much  about  every  little  trifle.  At  first  I  thought  i 
him  very  plain,  that  is  for  about  three  minutes  ;  he  is  pale,  i 
thin,  has  a  wide  mouth,  thick  lips,  and  not  very  good  teeth, 
longish,  loose-growing,  half -curling  rough  black  hair.  But  if 
you  hear  him  speak  for  five  minutes  you  think  no  more  of  them. ' 
His  eye  is  large  and  full,  and  not  very  dark  but  grey,  such  ani 
eye  as  would  receive  from  an  heavy  soul  the  dullest  expression ; 
but  it  speaks  every  emotion  of  his  animated  mind  :  he  has  more  ■ 
of  the  poet's  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling  than  I  ever  witnessed. ' 
He  has  fine  dark  eyebrows  and  an  overhanging  forehead."  : 
The  Wordsworths  soon  learnt  to  set  so  high  a  value  on  the^ 
company  of  their  new  friend,  that  they  gave  up  their  house  at , 
Racedown,  and  removed  to  Alfoxden,  near  Nether  Stowey. 
Here,  for  twelve  months  the  two  poets  were  in  constant; 
association.  They  wandered  together  over  the  beautiful! 
Quantock  Hills,  which  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  who  often  made ; 
one  of  the  party,  has  so  finely  described  in  her  Journal.  "  Our , 
conversations,"  Coleridge  tells  us,  "  turned  frequently  on  the ; 
two  cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the  | 
sympathy  of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  ■ 
nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by  the ' 
modifying  colours  of  imagination."  "  In  this  idea,"  he  goes  ■ 
on,  "  originated  the  plan  of  the  I^yrical  Ballads  ;  in^which  it ; 
404  \ 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

was  agreed,  that  my  endeavours  should  be  directed  to  persons 
and  characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself  as 
his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day, 
and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by 
awakening  the  mind's  attention  to  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and 
directing  it  to  the  loveHness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world 
before  us."  Wordsworth  takes  up  the  tale,  and  tells  us  how 
the  details  of  the  plan  were  originated  and  worked  out.  "  In 
the  autumn  of  1797,  Mr.  Coleridge,  my  sister  and  myself 
started  from  Alfoxden  pretty  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  a 
view  to  visit  Linton  and  the  Valley  of  Stones  near  to  it ;  and 
as  our  united  funds  were  very  small,  we  agreed  to  defray  the 
expense  of  the  tour  by  writing  a  poem  to  be  sent  to  The  New 
Monthly  Magazine.  In  the  course  of  this  walk  was  planned 
the  poem  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  founded  on  a  dream,  as 
Mr.  Coleridge  said,  of  his  friend  Mr.  Cruikshank.  Much  the 
greatest  part  of  the  story  was  Mr.  Coleridge's  invention  ;  but 
certain  parts  I  suggested  ;  for  example,  some  crime  was  to  be 
committed  which  was  to  bring  upon  the  Old  Navigator,  as 
Coleridge  afterward  delighted  to  call  him,  the  spectral  perse- 
cution, as  a  consequence  of  that  crime  and  his  own  wanderings. 
I  had  been  reading  in  Shelvocke's  Voyages,  a  day  or  two 
before,  that,  while  doubling  Cape  Horn  they  frequently  saw 
albatrosses  in  that  latitude,  the  largest  sort  of  sea-fowl,  some 
extending  their  wings  twelve  or  thirteen  feet.  '  Suppose,' 
said  I,  '  you  represent  him  as  having  killed  one  of  these  birds 
on  entering  the  South  Sea,  and  that  the  tutelary  spirits  of 
these  regions  take  upon  them  to  avenge  the  crime.'  The 
incident  was  thought  fit  for  the  purpose,  and  adopted  accord- 
ingly. I  also  suggested  the  navigation  of  the  ship  by  the 
dead  men,  but  do  not  recollect  that  I  had  anything  more  to 
do  with  the  scheme  of  the  poem.  We  began  the  composition 
together,  on  that  to  me  memorable  evening.  I  furnished  two 
or  three  Hues  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem,  in  particular  : 


And  listened  like  a  three  years'  child  ; 
The  Mariner  had  his  will. 


405 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

As  we  endeavoured  to  proceed  conjointly  our  respective  \ 
manners  proved  so  widely  different,  that  it  would  have  been  i 
quite  presumptuous  in  me  to  do  anything  but  separate  from  ] 
an  undertaking  upon  which  I  could  only  have  been  a  clog.  | 
The  Ancient  Mariner  grew  and  grew,  till  it  became  too  impor-  j 
tant  for  our  first  object,  which  was  limited  to  our  expectation  : 
of  five  pounds  ;  and  we  began  to  think  of  a  volume,  which  was 
to  consist,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  has  told  the  world,  of  poems,  j 
chiefly  on  supernatural  subjects,  taken  from  common  life,  but ! 
looked  at,  as  much  as  might  be,  through  an  imaginative 
medium." 

It  would  appear  from  this  that  the  division  of  the  work,  as  \ 
given  by  Coleridge,  was  a  development  of  the  original  plan ;  i 
but  when  the  different  portions  were  assigned,  each  poet  pro-  j 
ceeded  rapidly.  Coleridge  finished  The  Ancient  Mariner,  that ; 
wonderful  poem  which  is  unlike  anything  else  in  the  English  i 
language,  including  all  the  other  works  of  Coleridge  himself. 
It  shows  all  his  wonderful  imaginative  power,  together  with  a ' 
simplicity  and  restraint  which  is  not  usual  in  his  works,  and  for  \ 
which,  perhaps,  he  has  to  thank  the  influence  of  Wordsworth. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  Coleridge's  great  i 
contribution  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  "I  was  preparing,"  h&\ 
tells  us,  among  other  poems,  The  Dark  Ladie  and  the  Christabel,  | 
in  which  I  should  have  more  nearly  realized  my  ideal  than  I  \ 
had  done  in  my  first  attempt.  But  Mr.  Wordsworth's  industry  \ 
had  proved  so  much  more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his' 
poems  so  much  greater,  that  my  compositions,  instead  ofj 
forming  a  balance,  appeared  rather  an  interpolation  of  hetero- ' 
geneous  matter."  The  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  its  first  edition,' 
contained  nineteen  poems  by  Wordsworth,  and  only  four  byj 
Coleridge,  but,  the  one  contribution  of  the  Ancient  Mariner] 
gave  the  less  prolific  writer  a  fair  claim  to  the  title  of  partner ; 
in  the  work.  i 

Of  the  poems  contributed  by  Wordsworth  to  the  Lyrical' 
Ballads  he  tells  us  many  interesting  particulars  in  the  notes; 
prefaced  to  later  editions  of  his  works.  They  seem  to  have  I 
been  composed  in  Wordsworth's  happiest  mood,  not  laboriously, ; 
406  \ 


William]^Wordsworth 


406 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

as  tasks,  but  in  a  spirit  of  pure  enjoyment.  "  This  long  poem," 
Wordsworth  writes  of  The  Idiot  Boy,  "  was  composed  in  the 
groves  of  Alfoxden,  almost  extempore  ;  not  a  word,  I  believe, 
being  corrected,  though  one  stanza  was  omitted.  I  mention 
this  in  gratitude  to  those  happy  moments,  for,  in  truth,  I 
never  wrote  anything  with  so  much  glee."  Often  a  particular 
poem,  before  it  was  put  aside  as  finished,  was  read  aloud  to 
Dorothy  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  for  their  criticism.  Of 
We  Are  Seven  Wordsworth  tells  us,  "  When  it  was  all  but 
finished,  I  came  in  and  recited  it  to  Mr.  Coleridge  and  my 
sister,  and  said,  '  A  preparatory  stanza  must  be  added,  and  I 
should  sit  down  to  our  little  tea-meal  with  greater  pleasure  if 
my  task  were  finished.'  I  mentioned  in  substance  what  I 
"'^'shed  to  be  expressed,  and  Coleridge  immediately  threw  off 
the  stanza  thus  : 

A  little  child,  dear  brother  Jem, — 

I  objected  to  the  rhyme  '  dear  brother  Jem '  as  being 
ludicrous,  but  we  all  enjoyed  the  joke  of  hitching  in  our  friend 

James  T 's  name,  who  was  familiarly  called  Jem.  .  .       The 

said  Jem  got  a  sight  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  as  it  was  going 
through  the  press  at  Bristol,  during  which  time  I  was  residing 
in  that  city.  One  evening  he  came  to  me  with  a  grave  face, 
and  said,  '  Wordsworth,  I  have  seen  the  volume  that  Coleridge 
and  you  are  about  to  publish.  There  is  one  poem  in  it  which 
I  earnestly  entreat  you  will  cancel,  for,  if  published,  it  will 
make  you  everlastingly  ridiculous.'  I  answered  that  I  felt 
much  obliged  by  the  interest  he  took  in  my  good  name  as 
a  writer,  and  begged  to  know  what  was  the  unfortunate  piece 
he  alluded  to.  He  said,  *  It  is  called.  We  are  Seven,'  '  Nay,' 
said  I,  '  that  shall  take  its  chance,  however,'  and  he  left  me  in 
despair." 

The  criticism  of  this  friend  anticipated  the  criticism  which 
We  are  Seven,  with  several  other  of  Wordsworth's  poems  was 
to  receive  when  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  published  in  the 
autumn  of  1798.  The  style  and  language  of  these  poems  were 
entirely  new  to  a  public  accustomed  to  the  polished,  artificial 

407 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

verse  of  Pope  and  his  followers.  "  Innocent  and  pretty ' 
infantile  prattle,"  one  reviewer  called  We  are  Seven,  and  ; 
The  Thorn,  Goody  Blake,  and  The  Idiot  Boy,  received  still  ^ 
harsher  condemnation.  Wordsworth,  however,  maintained  \ 
and  defended  his  position.  In  a  second  edition  of  the  Lyrical ' 
Ballads,  1800,  he  inserted  a  Preface,  in  which  he  set  out  at  j 
length  the  reasons  which  had  guided  him  in  his  choice  of  ; 
subjects  and  of  language.  "  Humble  and  rustic  life  was 
generally  chosen,"  he  says,  "  because  in  that  condition  the 
essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  \ 
can  attain  their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  ! 
a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  language."  "  My  purpose  was  to  ; 
imitate  and  as  far  as  possible,  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  ' 
men."  "  There  will  be  found  in  these  volumes  little  of  what  ; 
is  usually  called  poetic  diction,  as  much  pains  has  been  taken  i 
to  avoid  it  as  is  usually  taken  to  produce  it."  "It  may  be  j 
safely  affirmed  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  essential  I 
difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  com-  i 
position."  These  quotations  from  Wordsworth's  lengthy ! 
argument  set  forward  the  principles  to  which  he  consistently  i 
held  during  the  whole  of  his  poetical  career.  Neither  ridicule  i 
nor  monetary  loss — both  of  which  he  suffered  in  no  common  : 
degree — could  induce  him  to  recant.  The  theory  of  poetic  ; 
writing  to  which  he  thus  stubbornly  held  was,  doubtless,  in  : 
many  respects  faulty  ;  and  to  it  are  due  those  flat  stretches  of  \ 
bald,  prosaic  verse  which  the  most  devoted  Words worthian  ] 
finds  himself  unable  to  defend.  But  the  very  exaggeration  of  i 
his  views  helped  him  to  do  his  part  in  bringing  about  the 
revolution  in  poetic  taste  which  marked  the  early  part  of  the  ; 
nineteenth  century.  \ 

But  when  we  have  acknowledged  these  lapses,  and  ruled  \ 
out  much  of  Wordsworth's  work  as  unworthy  of  a  great  poet,  '■ 
there  still  remains  a  very  large  number  of  poems  which  reach  ■ 
the  highest  poetic  standard  both  with  regard  to  loftiness  of  : 
sentiment  and  beauty  of  language.  Such  is  the  beautiful  \ 
Lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,  pubUshed  in  : 
the  first  edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  which  contains  the  lines  j 

408  j 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

so  often  quoted  as  expressing  the  main  tenets  of  that  '  religion 
of  Nature '  of  which  Wordsworth  was  the  apostle. 

Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her  ;   'tis  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

^Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings. 

With  the  Lines  on  Tintern  Abbey  the  book  of  I^yrical  Ballads 
ends,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  pubhshed  Wordsworth  and  his 
sister,  with  Coleridge,  started  for  Hamburg.  At  Hamburg 
Coleridge  left  the  other  two  and  proceeded  to  the  University 
of  Gottingen.  Here  he  stayed  for  five  months.  There  was 
a  colony  of  English  students  at  Gottingen,  and  Coleridge 
seems  soon  to  have  made  himself  a  noted  figure  among 
them  by  his  enthusiasm  for  literature,  his  inexhaustible 
flow  of  eloquence,  his  metaphysical  theories  and  his  poems. 
"  It  is  very  deHghtful,"  writes  one  of  his  fellow-students,  *'  to 
hear  him  sometimes  discourse  on  religious  topics  for  an  hour 
together."  Christabel,  that  weird  and  beautiful  poem,  which 
he  began  in  1798,  and  never  finished,  was  recited  to  his 
attentive  audience,  and  perhaps  received  some  additions 
during  his  stay  in  Germany.  He  returned  to  England  in 
July  1799,  having  acquired  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
German  language,  and  increased  his  taste  for  metaphysical 
speculation. 

The  Wordsworths,  meanwhile,  had  settled  for  the  winter  at 
Goslar,  where  they  lived  a  retired  life,  and  made  very  little 
progress  in  learning  the  German  language,  for  which  purpose 
this  journey  had  been  made.  They  suffered  severely  from  the 
extreme  cold,  but  the  poems  which  Wordsworth  wrote  during 
this  period  are  among  his  very  best.  They  include  Lucy  Gray, 
Ruth,  Nutting,  The  Poet's  Epitaph  and  Lucy,     He  also  planned 

2D  409 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  began  the  long  autobiographical  poem  of  which  only  two 
parts,  The  Prelude  and  The  Excursion,  out  of  the  projected 
three  were  ever  finished. 

When  they  returned  to  England  early  in  1799,  Wordsworth 
and  his  sister  settled  down  in  their  native  and  beloved  Lake 
Country.  A  second  edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  was  published 
in  1800,  in  which  was  included  the  shorter  poems  written  by 
Wordsworth  during  his  stay  in  Germany.  The  first  edition, 
so  the  publisher  is  reported  to  have  told  Coleridge,  "  had  been 
sold  to  seafaring  men,  who,  having  heard  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  took  the  volume  for  a  naval  song-book."  The 
second  also,  attained  no  great  degree  of  general  popularity.  It 
was  violently  attacked  by  the  critics  who  called  the  Ancient 
Mariner  a  '  cock-and-bull  story,'  and  compared  some  of  Words- 
worth's Ijnrics  to  '  Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence/  "  Gradually, 
however,  the  poems  won  their  way  with  the  public,  in  spite 
of  hostile  reviews,  and  now  the  Lyrical  Ballads  have  long  been 
recognized  as  containing  some  of  the  finest  work  produced  by 
the  two  greatest  poets  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  and 
also  as  marking  a  turning-point  in  the  history  of  English 
poetry. 

Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  both  lived  for  many  years  after 
the  publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  but  neither  of  them 
produced  any  work  of  finer  quality  than  that  contained  in 
this  early  volume.  The  year  1798  was  the  golden  year  of 
Coleridge's  poetical  life.  Soon  afterward  his  powers  began  to 
show  signs  of  decay.  His  brilHant  erratic  genius  wasted  itself 
in  fruitless  projects,  his  health  failed,  and  the  opium  habit, 
which  he  apparently  formed  as  early  as  1802,  ended  by  bringing 
about  his  mental  ruin.  He  died  in  1834.  Wordsworth  lived 
a  quiet,  frugal,  happy  life  among  his  beloved  lakes  and  moun- 
tains. In  1802  he  married  his  cousin,  Mary  Hutchinson, 
whom  he  celebrated  in  the  beautiful  poem  beginning,  "  She 
was  a  phantom  of  dehght."  His  sister  remained  an  inmate 
of  his  house  until  his  death.  Children  were  born,  and  grew 
up,  and  life  went  calmly  with  the  little  family  in  their  remote 
and  beautiful  home.  A  few  miles  away,  at  Keswick,  lived 
410 


THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 

the  poet  Southey  with  his  family  and  the  family  of  his  brother- 
in-law,  Coleridge ;  and  Coleridge  himself  stayed,  at  intervals, 
for  long  periods  here  or  with  the  Wordsworths.  To  Words- 
worth, Coleridge,  and  Southey  critics  of  the  day  gave  the 
name  of  "  I^ake  Poets,"  thus  classing  together  three  poets 
who  in  their  style  and  their  methods  differed  very  widely. 

Wordsworth  wrote  copiously,  and  his  fame  gradually  grew. 
He  never  became  a  popular  poet,  but  to  the  comparatively 
small  company  of  those  who  were  led  to  recognize  the 
supreme  merit  of  his  work  he  was,  what  he  has  since  become 
to  a  larger  following,  an  inspired  teacher  claiming  not  only 
admiration,  but  reverence.  He  died  in  1850,  at  the  age  of 
eighty. 


411 


CHAPTER  XLII  i 

BYRON'S   CHILDE   HAROLD: 

SHELLEY'S   LYRICS  j 

ONE  afternoon  in  May  1798,  a  schoolboy  walked  slowlyi 
away  from  the  famous  Grammar  School  of  Aberdeen/ 
toward  the  small  city  house  which  was  his  home.  Hel 
was  not  more  than  ten  years  old,  but  his  pale,  beautiful  face| 
had  a  look  of  precocious  intelligence,  and  his  splendid  dark] 
eyes  glowed  with  strong  excitement.  He  Hmped  slightly  ai^ 
he  walked  though  his  frame  was  strong  and  sturdy ;  but| 
to-day  he  did  not,  as  he  did  on  common  days,  glance  question^ 
ingly  and  half-angrily  into  the  faces  of  the  passers-by  to  see  i^ 
his  deformity  was  noticed.  He  was  possessed  by  one  great 
thought.  That  day,  he,  a  schoolboy,  whose  father  had  died 
ruined  and  disgraced,  and  whose  mother  lived  on  a  poor  £150 
a  year,  had  become  a  peer  of  the  realm  of  England.  His  heart  j 
swelled  at  the  thought,  as  it  had  done  earlier  in  the  day  when 
his  name  had  been  called  at  school  with  the  proud  "  Dominus  "j 
prefixed  to  it.  He  had  burst  then,  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and 
even  now  the  tears  were  not  very  far  from  those  shining  eyes 
which  were  looking  with  almost  wild  exultation  over  the  past 
and  over  the  future.  The  boy  thought  of  the  fierce  old  grand- 
uncle  through  whose  death  this  great  honour  had  come  to 
him ;  he  recalled  childish  memories  of  wild  dark  tales  told  of 
his  ancestors ;  of  his  father,  "  Mad  Jack  Byron,"  whom, 
by  his  mother's  injudicious  confidences,  he  knew  to  have 
been  as  profligate  as  he  was  handsome.  He  thought  o^ 
Newstead  Abbey,  the  grand  old  house  which  was  now  hia 
own ;  he  saw  himself  reigning  there,  the  proud  lord  of  greats 
possessions.    A  movement  of  wild  passion  shook  his  boyishi 

412 


BYRON'S    CHILDE    HAROLD 

soul,  which  in  some  dim,  half-comprehended  fashion,  he  felt 
established  his  kinship  with  those  dead  and  gone  men  of  his 
race.  Through  all  his  after  life  the  memory  of  that  moment 
remained.  He  never  forgot  that  he  was  Lord  Byron,  member 
of  a  proud  aristocracy,  and  he  never  wholly  escaped  from  the 
domination  of  those  wild  passions  that  had  ruled  his 
ancestors. 

Six  years  later  another  schoolboy-poet  walked  like  Byron 
apart  from  his  fellows  and  felt  within  him  the  stirring  of  an 
impulse  that  affected  his  whole  life.  This  boy  was  tall  and 
slight,  with  a  fair  complexion,  large  blue  eyes,  and  soft,  curling 
brown  hair.  His  expression  was  extraordinarily  sweet  and 
gentle,  and  when  he  was  strongly  moved  there  came  over  his 
whole  face  such  a  glow  of  feeling  as  lit  it  into  positive  beauty. 
But  for  the  most  part  he  was  quiet  and  dreamy,  and  often  his 
eyes  seemed  to  look  dully  out  upon  the  world  around  him, 
because  they  were  dimmed  by  the  splendour  of  the  visions 
that  floated  before  his  brain.  He  did  not  care  much  for  the 
sports  the  other  boys  loved.  He  Hked  better  to  pace  slowly 
backward  and  forward  along  the  southern  wall  of  the 
Brentford  school  at  which  he  was  a  boarder,  dreaming  his  own 
beautiful  dreams.  What  were  his  thoughts  on  that  May 
morning  which  marked  an  epoch  in  his  life,  he  himself,  years 
afterward,  told  to  the  world  : 

I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 

My  spirit's  sleep  :   a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was. 

When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 

And  wept,  I  knew  not  why  ;   until  there  rose 

From  the  near  schoolroom,  voices,  that,  alas  I 

Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes — 

The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around — 

— But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 

Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground— 

So,  without  shame,  I  spoke  : — "  I  will  be  wise. 

And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  hes 

Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 

The  selfish  £ind  the  strong  still  tyrannize 

Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controlled 

My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and  bold 

413 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  irom  forbidden  mines  of  lore. 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught  i 

I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store  : 

Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before  j 

It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind ;  \ 

Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and  more 
Within  me. 

Through  all  his  short  life  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  faithful  i 
to  this  ideal  of  his  boyhood.  He  and  Byron  were  to  become  j 
two  of  the  greatest  figures  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  i 
and  to  carry  the  reaction  against  the  school  of  Dryden  and  of  \ 
Pope  to  its  farthest  point.  Both,  in  widely  different  ways,  i 
were  to  stand  as  leaders  of  revolt  against  the  established  order  , 
of  things,  and  were  to  breathe  into  English  poetry  a  swift,  ' 
strong  spirit  that  should  bear  it  triumphantly  into  regions  | 
where  it  had  never  ventured  before.  But  each  had  to  pass  a  : 
stormy  and  disastrous  youth  before  he  could  accomplish  his  | 
best  work.  ^ 

Byron,  even  while  he  was  a  student  at  Cambridge,  was  . 
distinguished  by  the  dark  and  cynical  melancholy  of  his  ^ 
bearing  and  conversation.    This  was  to  some  extent  a  pose, 
and  proceeded  from  the  same  diseased  vanity  that  led  him  to  I 
paint  the  irregularities  of  his  life  in  colours  far  blacker  than  j 
they  deserved.    The  fierce  natural  passions  that  he  could  not  i 
control  he  turned  into  a  means  of  self-glorification.     He  would  • 
be  as  mad  and  bad  as  any  Byron  of  his  race  had  ever  been,  i 
and  no  one  should  pity,  though  they  might  blame  him.     In  ■ 
1807  he  published  his  first  poems.  Hours  of  Idleness.    They 
had  little  poetic  merit,  and  the  reviewers  poured  upon  them 
the  ridicule  which  a  poet  who  wrote  :  | 

Weary  of  love,  of  life,  devour'd  with  spleen,  j 

I  rest,  a  perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen, 

ought  to  have  prepared  himself  to  meet.  But  Byron  was  \ 
furious,  and  published  a  few  weeks  after  his  coming  of  age  ; 
in  January  1809,  the  clever,  savage  attack  on  Wordsworth,  j 
Coleridge,  Scott,  and  other  contemporary  poets,  which  he  ' 
called  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  The  following  \ 
June  he  left  England.  ■ 

4H 


Lord  Byron  414 

Portrait  from  life  when  about  17-18,  probably  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence 


BYRON'S    CHILDE    HAROLD 

He  was  absent  for  two  years,  travelling  in  Spain,  Italy, 
Greece  and  Turkey.  The  wildest  and  most  romantic  tales 
are  told  concerning  his  life  at  this  period,  and  it  is  difficult 
to  gain  any  clear  idea  of  what  he  really  did.  There  remains, 
however,  one  solid  memento  of  his  travels.  On  his  return  he 
took  some  poems  entitled  Hints  from  Horace,  to  a  friend. 
The  friend  did  not  think  very  highly  of  them.  "  Have  you 
no  other  result  of  your  travels  ?  "  he  asked.  ''  A  few  short 
pieces  ;  and  a  lot  of  Spenserian  stanzas  ;  not  worth  troubling 
you  with,  but  you  are  welcome  to  them,"  Byron  replied. 
These  Spenserian  stanzas  were  published  early  in  the  next 
year  as  the  first  and  second  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  The 
poem  relates  the  adventurous  voyage  of  a  '  childe  '  or  young 
chieftain,  whose  race  "  had  been  glorious  in  another  day." 
Harold  is  a  dark  and  gloomy  youth,  '*  a  shameless  wight. 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee,"  who  having  early  run 
"  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth,"  had  felt  the  "  fulness  of 
satiety,"  and  learned  to  loathe  his  native  land.  He  is,  in  fact, 
Byron  as  he  loved  to  depict  himself,  and  the  voyage  of  this 
interesting  sinner  is  the  voyage  from  which  Byron  had  just 
returned.  The  poem  contains  a  great  deal  of  affectation  and 
a  great  deal  of  showy  sentiment,  but  here  and  there  are  rich 
and  splendid  passages,  which  give  promise  of  better  things. 
Such  as  it  was,  however,  it  hit  the  taste  of  the  public  of  the 
day.  lyord  Byron  "  woke  up  one  morning  to  find  himself 
famous."  lyondon  society  went  mad  over  Childe  Harold,  and 
was  eager  to  pay  homage  to  its  author.  For  two  years  he 
was  the  darling  of  the  fashionable  world.  The  poems  which 
followed  one  another  in  rapid  succession  throughout  this 
period  roused  Byron's  adorers  to  still  greater  enthusiasm.  In 
1813  came  the  Giaour  and  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  in  1814  The 
Corsair  and  Lara.  Bach  of  these  had  its  melancholy,  interest- 
ing wicked  hero ;  each  had  its  brilHant  passages  shining 
among  others  that  were  bald  and  immature ;  in  each  could  be 
felt,  though  uncertainly,  the  breath  of  that  strong,  free,  spirit 
which  was  by  and  by  to  carry  the  author  above  and  beyond 
his  youthful  faults.    Byron  wrote  with  ease  and  rapidity,  and 

41S 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  liked  to  give  exaggerated  accounts  of  his  powers  in  this 
direction,  and  to  represent  himself  as  the  fine  gentleman 
toying  with  literature,  the  aristocrat  condescending  to  amuse 
himself  with  composition.  "  Lara"  he  said,  "  I  wrote  while 
undressing  after  coming  home  from  balls  and  masquerades,  in 
the  year  of  revelry  1814.  The  Bride  was  written  in  four, 
The  Corsair  in  ten  days.  *'  This,"  he  added,  the  true  feeling 
of  the  poet  overcoming  the  affectation  of  the  fine  gentleman, 
'*  I  take  to  be  a  humiliating  confession,  as  it  proves  my  own 
want  of  judgment  in  publishing,  and  the  public's  in  reading, 
things  which  cannot  have  stamina  for  permanence."  He 
took  all  his  honours  with  haughty,  though  courteous  indiffer- 
ence. Yet  society  continued  to  adore  him.  "  The  women 
suffocated  him,"  we  are  told,  "  with  their  adulation  in  drawing- 
rooms."  The  Byronic  pose  became  the  fashion  among  young 
men  of  all  classes,  who  practised  the  look  of  dark  and  interest- 
ing melancholy  and  the  scornful  curl  of  the  lip  which  they  saw 
that  their  idol  affected,  and  discarded  their  neckcloths  because 
he  appeared  in  a  picturesque  turn-down  collar. 

Then  came  the  change.  In  18 15  Byron  married  Miss 
Milbanke,  a  beautiful  heiress,  whose  somewhat  cold  temper 
and  strong  regard  for  conventional  propriety  were  but  ill- 
matched  with  the  quick  and  passionate  nature  of  her  husband. 
His  excesses  shocked  and  frightened  her,  and  soon  rumours  of 
disagreements  between  the  two  began  to  be  heard.  At  the 
beginning  of  18 16  she  left  him,  and  the  rumours  became  darker 
and  more  mysterious.  There  were  hints  of  insanity,  and  of 
misconduct  so  terrible  that  it  could  not  be  spoken  of.  No 
open  charge,  however,  was  made,  and  it  is  probable  that 
Byron's  sins  were  nothing  worse  than  reckless  and  dissipated 
acts  which  his  admirers  had  heretofore  condoned  and  even 
lauded.  But  society,  tired  perhaps  of  the  idol  it  had  wor- 
shipped through  two  long  years,  chose  to  be  extremely  shocked. 
The  chorus  of  adulation  turned  to  a  chorus  of  disgust.  I^adies 
shuddered  if  the  name  of  Byron  was  mentioned  in  their  hearing. 
He  was  hissed  and  insulted  in  the  public  streets,  and  accused 
of  every  vice  that  the  imagination  of  his  traducers  could 

416 


BYRON'S    CHILDE    HAROLD 

picture.  His  wife,  who  was  regarded  by  all  with  the  deepest 
pity  and  admiration,  persistently  refused  to  return  to  him. 
With  rage  and  hatred  in  his  heart  Byron,  in  April,  set  sail  from 
England,  vowing  that  he  would  never  return. 

Shelley,  meanwhile,  had  thrown  himself  headlong  into  a  war 
against  the  injustices  and  abuses  of  his  day.  His  gentle 
nature  was  continually  shocked  and  outraged  by  the  misery 
he  saw  in  the  world  around  him,  and  he  blamed  all  existing 
laws  and  institutions  for  allowing  such  things  to  be.  Christ's 
religion  had  been  established  in  England  for  more  than  thir- 
teen centuries,  yet  man  still  hated  his  brother  man,  and  life 
was  still  a  hideous  struggle  in  which  the  weak  were  trampled 
under  foot.  Therefore  religion  was  false,  and  must  be 
abolished  before  the  Golden  Age  could  come.  Marriage  vows 
did  not  prevent  men  and  women  from  being  false  and  cruel  to 
those  whom  they  had  sworn  to  love.  Therefore  marriage  was 
a  pernicious  institution,  and  must  go.  Something  after  this 
fashion  Shelley  reasoned  in  his  hot  and  generous  youth,  and 
he  proceeded,  with  an  absolute  disregard  for  consequences,  to 
carry  out  his  principles  in  his  actions.  While  he  was  a  student 
at  Oxford  he  published  a  pamphlet  called  The  Necessity  of 
Atheism,  and  was,  in  consequence,  requested  by  the  authorities 
to  leave  the  university.  His  father,  a  wealthy  and  narrow- 
minded  Sussex  squire,  cast  him  off  in  anger,  and  for  a  time 
Shelley  lived  poorly  in  I^ondon,  not  knowing  where  to  turn 
for  the  money  to  buy  his  next  meal.  But  nothing  could  make 
him  retract  one  article  of  the  creed  he  had  professed.  His 
simple  habits  made  money  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him. 
He  was  a  water  drinker  and  a  vegetarian,  and  he  never  thought 
about  food  until  he  grew  hungry.  Then  he  would  dart  into 
a  baker's  shop,  buy  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  munch  it  composedly 
as  he  walked  along  the  street.  For  clothes  he  had  an  equal 
disregard.  He  never  wore  a  greatcoat,  and  seldom  wore  a 
hat.  When  he  had  money  he  bestowed  it  in  lavish  though 
not  reckless  charity  ;  and  of  the  world's  opinion  he  was 
utterly  regardless. 

After  a  time  an  arrangement  was  made  between  Shelley  and 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

his  father,  by  which  the  young  man  was  to  have  an  allowance 
of  £200  a  year.  Soon  after  this  he  married.  His  wife,  Harriet, 
was  a  beautiful  and  gentle  girl,  of  a  position  in  life  much  lower 
than  his  own,  whose  harsh  treatment  by  an  unsympathetic 
father  had  excited  his  quixotic  generosity.  The  pair  led  a 
wandering  life,  plunging  into  all  sorts  of  schemes  for  the 
regeneration  of  mankind.  Shelley  spent  his  time,  his  energies 
and  his  money  unsparingly  in  the  causes  he  championed,  and 
wrote  political  tracts  and  revolutionary  poems  with  equal 
zest.  In  1813  he  published  his  first  important  work.  Queen 
Mah.  The  poem  was  universally  decried,  and  was  denounced 
as  both  immoral  and  blasphemous.  Through  it  Shelley  was 
definitely  brought  before  the  public  as  an  advocate  of  atheism 
and  an  apostle  of  revolution ;  and  this  character  he  has 
never  wholly  lost. 

Shelley's  marriage  proved  to  be  an  unhappy  one.  In  1814 
he  separated  from  his  wife,  and  in  1816  she  committed  suicide. 
The  whole  story  is  very  painful,  and  although  Shelley  through- 
out acted  strictly  in  accordance  with  his  openly  professed 
principles,  he  suffered  acutely  from  self-reproach  *'  at  having 
brought  Harriet  in  the  first  instance  into  an  atmosphere  of 
thought  and  life  for  which  her  strength  of  mind  had  not 
qualified  her.'*  Shelley  subsequently  married  Mary  Godwin, 
daughter  of  William  Godwin,  the  philosopher  and  novelist, 
who  had  exercised  a  strong  influence  over  the  younger  man's 
intellectual  development. 

Shelley  by  this  time  was  receiving,  by  a  new  arrangement 
with  his  father,  an  income  of  £1000  a  year.  In  1816  he 
and  Mary  Godwin  left  England  for  Switzerland.  They  settled 
at  Geneva,  and  here,  very  soon  afterward  they  were  joined  by 
lyord  Byron,  fleeing  in  rage  and  despair  from  his  detractors. 
For  some  months  the  poets  lived  in  familiar  daily  intercourse. 
They  occupied  two  villas  at  no  great  distance  from  each  other, 
and  they  spent  their  days  boating  upon  the  lake  and  reading 
and  talking  together.  The  sweet  and  gentle-natured  Shelley, 
so  free  from  any  thought  of  self,  so  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the 
cause  of  humanity,  exerted  a  strong  influence  over  the  haughty, 
418 


BYRON'S    CHILDE    HAROLD 

egotistical,  world-weary  Byron.  "  He  was,"  Byron  declared, 
"  the  most  gentle,  the  most  amiable,  and  least  worldly  minded 
person  I  ever  met ;  full  of  delicacy,  disinterested  beyond  all 
other  men,  and  possessing  a  degree  of  genius  joined  to  sim- 
plicity as  rare  as  it  is  admirable.  He  had  formed  to  himself  a 
beau  ideal  of  all  that  is  fine,  high-minded,  and  noble,  and  he 
acted  up  to  this  ideal  even  to  the  very  letter."  In  Shelley's 
presence  Byron  was  at  his  best.  His  flippancy,  his  self- 
consciousness  and  his  worldliness  dropped  from  him  in  com- 
munion with  that  tender  and  lovely  spirit,  and  all  in  him  that 
was  generous  and  noble  responded  to  its  influence.  Gradually 
his  rage  and  anger  died.  *'  I  was  in  a  wretched  state  of  health," 
he  says,  "  when  I  was  in  Geneva ;  but  quiet  and  the  lake  soon 
set  me  up.  I  never  led  so  moral  a  life  as  during  my  residence 
in  that  country." 

In  September  the  Shelley s  returned  to  England,  and  Byron 
started  on  a  tour  through  the  Bernese  Oberland.  Returning 
to  Geneva  he  took  up  poetic  composition  with  vigour.  The 
Prisoner  of  Chillon  had  been  written  during  his  tour,  and  a 
third  canto  of  Childe  Harold  finished.  This  third  canto, 
although  nominally  a  part  of  the  poem  published  in  1812,  is  in 
spirit  and  tone  entirely  different.  "  Self -exiled  Harold  wanders 
forth  again,"  but  this  time  with  a  spirit  less  self-absorbed,  and 
an  eye  that  can  look  with  real  and  sympathetic  insight 
upon  the  different  objects  that  meet  it.  The  twenty-first 
stanza  brings  us  to  the  immortal  lines  on  Waterloo,  which, 
hackneyed  as  they  are,  must  always  sound  with  fresh  beauty 
in  the  ear  of  one  who  loves  lofty  and  impassioned  verse. 
There  follows  the  beautiful  and  famous  simile  of  the  broken 
mirror  : 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 

In  every  fragment  multiplies  ;   and  makes 

A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 

The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks  : 

And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes. 

lyiving  in  shatter'd  guise  ;    and  still,  and  cold. 

And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches. 

Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old. 

Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

419 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Byron  passes  on  to  describe  "  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of 
men,"  Napoleon  : 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  1 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame. 

The  pilgrim  journeys  on  to  that  "  exulting  and  abounding 
river  "  over  which  frowns  "  the  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels," 
and  even  his  melancholy  is  softened  by  the  beauty  of  the 
scene.  From  one  picture  of  loveliness  to  another  the  poem 
passes.  We  see  I^ake  Iceman  lying  quiet  in  "  the  hush  of 
night "  and  the  "  swift  Rhone "  cleaving  its  way  between 
heights  which  appear  "as  lovers  who  have  parted  in  hate." 
Clarens  suggests  a  rhapsody  on  love  and  on  Rousseau, 
I^ausanne  and  Geneva  an  eloquent  tribute  to  Gibbon  and 
Voltaire.  The  canto  closes  with  a  passionate  invocation  to 
the  little  daughter  he  has  left  behind  him  in  England. 

Toward  the  end  of  1816  Byron  left  Geneva  and  settled  in 
Venice.  Here  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold  was  finished. 
It  opens  with  the  well-known  stanza  beginning  : 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

There  follows  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  many  de- 
scriptions that  have  been  written  of  this  unique  city.  As  he 
wanders  on  through  Italy  each  town  or  village  brings  to  his 
mind  the  memory  of  the  great  men  associated  with  it,  and 
Petrarch,  Tasso,  and  Dante  all  are  celebrated.  At  last  Rome 
is  reached,  and  the  poem  rises  to  its  very  highest  point  of 
impassioned  grandeur. 

O  Rome  !  my  coimtry  I  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
I^one  mother  of  dead  empires  1   and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?    Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye  I 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 
420 


BYRON'S    CHILDE    HAROLD 

The  Niobe  of  Nations  1  there  she  stands. 

Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe  ; 

An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands. 

Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago  ; 

The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  ; 

The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 

Of  their  heroic  dwellers  ;   dost  thou  flow. 

Old  Tiber  !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 

Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

As  the  poet  recounts  the  history,  and  passes  in  review  the 
most  famous  treasures  of  the  great  city,  thoughts  and  recol- 
lections rush  to  his  mind.  "  The  voice  of  Marius,"  said  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  "  could  not  sound  more  deep  and  solemn  among 
the  ruins  of  Carthage,  than  the  strains  of  the  pilgrim  among 
the  broken  shrines  and  fallen  statues  of  her  subduer/' 

Byron's  life  at  Venice  was  the  wildest  and  most  dissipated 
part  of  his  whole  career.  Shelley's  influence  was  withdrawn, 
and  the  reports  that  reached  him  from  England  of  the  stories 
concerning  him  current  there,  exasperated  his  haughty  spirit, 
and  drove  him  to  find  reUef  in  the  wildest  of  excesses.  Time 
after  time  he  ventured  his  life  in  dangerous  exploits  upon  the 
sea,  until  the  boatmen  called  him  the  "  English  fish  "  and  the 
**  sea-devil,"  and  said  that  he  "  dived  for  his  poetry."  His 
temper  seemed  utterly  reckless,  arO  his  hatred  of  England  and 
everjrthing  English  became  almost  a  mania.  Yet  throughout 
these  miserable  years  he  was  writing  continually — brilliant, 
stormy,  wonderful  verses  such  as  no  one  but  Byron  could  have 
produced.  But  riotous  living  was  affecting  his  health,  and 
had  he  gone  on  in  it  much  longer,  his  powers  must  have  failed 
him.  Happily  the  same  influence  which,  in  1816,  had  done 
so  much  to  help  him  toward  a  purer  and  wiser  life  was  soon 
once  more  to  come  to  his  aid. 

In  1818  Shelley  and  his  wife  again  left  England — ^this  time 
never  to  return.  After  a  suit  in  Chancery  the  relations  of 
Shelley's  first  wife  had  succeeded — largely  on  the  ground  of 
his  so-called  immoral  opinions  and  conduct — in  obtaining  a 
decree  depriving  him  of  the  custody  of  her  children.  Shelley 
was  heartbroken ;  and  a  wild  fear  lest  the  children  of  his 
second  marriage  might  also  be  taken  from  him  was  one  of  the 

421 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

motives  which  led  him  to  seek  a  home  abroad.  They  travelled 
through  northern  Italy,  and  in  August  Shelley,  leaving  his 
wife  at  the  Bagni  de  I^ucca,  paid  a  visit  to  Byron  in  Venice. 
The  old  relations  were  taken  up  :  the  two  poets  rode  and 
walked  and  talked  together,  and  Byron  once  more  became  the 
"  gentle,  patient,  unassuming  companion,"  "  cheerful,  frank, 
witty  "  and  fascinating,  who  appears  in  Shelley's  description. 
Byron  lent  the  Shelleys  his  villa  at  Este,  near  Venice,  for  the 
autumn,  and  here  Shelley  produced  his  beautiful  description 
of  the  passing  of  a  day  which  he  called  Lines  written  among  the 
Euganean  Hills;  the  first  of  that  wonderful  series  of  lyrics 
which  belong  to  the  last  four  years  of  his  Hfe.  Most  of  his 
important  longer  works  were  also  composed  at  this  time,  but 
of  these  we  shall  not  speak  in  detail  here.  In  them  Shelley 
tried  to  express  all  the  great  ideas  that  filled  his  brain,  all  his 
plans  for  the  world's  regeneration,  all  his  hatred  of  oppression 
and  tyranny.  They  are  full  of  the  finest  and  truest  poetry 
They  show  how  the  hot  fire  in  Shelley's  blood  was  gradually 
passing  into  the  burning  steady  glow  of  a  wiser  and  more 
effective  enthusiasm,  how  the  crudeness  of  his  early  years  was 
mellowing  into  a  wonderful  ripeness  and  perfection.  If 
Shelley  had  lived  a  few  years  longer  he  would  probably  have 
been  as  great  a  teacher  as  he  is  a  poet,  and  the  reproach  that 
he  gave  to  the  world  nothing  fit  for  "  human  nature's  daily 
food  "  would  have  been  lifted  from  him. 

But  it  is  for  his  lyrics  that  Shelley  will  always  be  best 
remembered  and  best  loved.  They  are  not,  as  are  the  lyrics  of 
the  Elizabethans  and  the  lyrics  of  Burns,  primarily  songs. 
The  reader  is  so  carried  away  by  what  Professor  Myers  has 
called  the  "  exciting  and  elevating  quality  "  of  the  poem  that 
he  is  scarcely  conscious  of  the  beauties  of  its  versification. 
Each  lyric  is  like  a  pure,  bright  flame  which  owes  the  perfection 
of  its  form  to  its  glowing  heat  and  its  irresistible  tendency 
upward. 

Great  as  are  his  poems,  however,  his  personality  was  even 
more  wonderful  and  delightful.  "  The  truth  was,"  wrote  a 
later  friend.  Captain  Trelawny,  "  Shelley  loved  everything 
422 


SHELLEY'S    LYRICS 

better  than  himself.  ...  All  who  heard  him  felt  the  charm 
of  his  simple,  earnest  manner."  *'  Shelley's  mental  activity 
was  infectious,  he  kept  your  brain  in  constant  action."  "  He 
never  laid  aside  his  book  and  magic  mantle  ;  he  waved  his 
wand,  and  Byron,  after  a  faint  show  of  defiance,  stood  mute." 
Trelawny  joined  the  little  circle  of  friends  who  had  gathered 
round  Shelley  in  his  Italian  home,  in  January  1822.  His 
famous  account  of  his  first  meeting  with  the  poet,  though  it 
belongs  to  a  later  date  may  be  given  here,  for  no  other  descrip- 
tion could  enable  us  to  realize  so  fully  the  personality  of  the 
man  who  wrote  the  wonderful  lyrics  we  are  considering. 
Trelawny  arrived  on  a  visit  to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Williams, 
Shelley's  intimate  friends.  '*  The  WilHamses  received  me  in 
their  earnest,  cordial  manner  ;  we  had  a  great  deal  to  com- 
municate to  each  other,  and  were  in  loud  and  animated 
conversation,  when  I  was  rather  put  out  by  observing  in  the 
passage  near  the  open  door,  opposite  to  where  I  sat,  a  pair  of 
gUttering  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  mine  ;  it  was  too  dark  to  make 
out  whom  they  belonged  to.  With  the  acuteness  of  a  woman 
Mrs.  Williams's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  mine,  and  going 
to  the  doorway  she  laughingly  said,  *  Come  in,  Shelley,  it's 
only  our  friend  Tre  just  arrived.'  Swiftly  gliding  in,  blushing 
like  a  girl,  a  tall,  thin  stripling  held  out  both  his  hands  ;  and 
although  I  could  hardly  believe,  as  I  looked  at  his  flushed, 
feminine  and  artless  face,  that  it  could  be  the  great  poet,  I 
returned  his  warm  pressure.  After  the  ordinary  greetings 
and  courtesies,  he  sat  down  and  listened.  I  was  silent  from 
astonishment :  was  it  possible  this  mild-looking,  beardless 
boy,  could  be  the  veritable  monster,  at  war  with  all  the 
world  ? — excommunicated  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church, 
deprived  of  his  civil  rights  by  the  fiat  of  a  grim  I/Ord  Chancellor, 
discarded  by  every  member  of  his  family,  and  denounced  by 
the  rival  sages  of  our  literature  as  the  founder  of  a  Satanic 
school  ?  I  could  not  beHeve  it ;  it  must  be  a  hoax.  He  was 
habited  like  a  boy,  in  a  black  jacket  and  trousers,  which  he 
seemed  to  have  outgrown,  or  his  tailor,  as  is  the  custom,  had 
most  shamefully  stinted  him  in  his  '  sizings.'     Mrs.  Williams 

423 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

saw  my  embarrassment,  and  to  relieve  me  asked  Shelley  what 

book  he  had  in  his  hand  ?     His  face  brightened,  and  hei 

answered    briskly  :     '  Calderon's    Magico    Prodigioso — I    am| 

translating  some  passages  in  it/  , 

"  '  Oh,  read  it  to  us.'  ' 

"  Shoved  off  from  the  shore  of  commonplace  incidents  that' 

could  not  interest  him,  and  fairly  launched  on  a  theme  that  I 

did,  he  instantly  became  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  book^ 

in  his  hand.     The  masterly  manner  in  which  he  analysed  the, 

genius  of  the  author,  his  lucid  interpretation  of  the  story,  and  I 

the  ease  with  which  he  translated  into  our  language  the  mostj 

subtle  and  imaginative  passages  of  the  Spanish  poet,  were 

marvellous,  as  was  his  command  of  the  two  languages.    After j 

this  touch  of  his  quality  I  no  longer  doubted  his  identity ;   a  ^ 

dead  silence  ensued  ;   looking  up,  I  asked  :  i 

"  '  Where  is  he  ?  '  : 

"  Mrs.  Williams  said,  '  Who  ?     Shelley  ?     Oh,  he  comes  and 

goes  like  a  spirit,  no  one  knows  when  or  where.*  '*  j 

Such  was  Shelley  at  the  beginning  of  1822,  and  such  he  was, 

substantially,  when  in  1818,  he  dreamed  away  that  sunny! 

October  day  among  the  Kuganean  Hills,  and,  looking  down,] 

saw  where,  "  islanded  **  in  that  "  green  sea.  The  waveless ; 

plain  of  lyombardy  "  :  1 

Underneath  Day's  azure  eyes  1 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 

and  saw,  also,  floating  before  his  enraptured  eyes,  the  vision! 
that  constantly  haunted  him, — ^that  calm  and  happy  place        ; 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love,  | 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built,  1 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt,  ...  i 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife  ' 

Circling,  h'ke  the  breath  of  Ufe,  j 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode  | 
With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

But  the  time  for  the  realization  of  this  ideal  was  still  very  | 
far  off.  Fresh  trouble  was  quickly  coming  on  poor  Shelley.  ; 
His  little  daughter  fell  ill,  and  died.  Shelley  suffered  terribly,  ' 
though  his  friends  tell  us  that  he  said  little,  and  was  ready,  , 

4^ 


SHELLEY'S    LYRICS 

with  his  usual  buoyancy  of  spirits,  to  join  in  the  simple  amuse- 
ments of  his  Uttle  circle.  But  the  lyrics  written  during  that 
winter  show  that  a  deep-seated  grief  possessed  him.  Some  of 
his  melancholy  was  due  to  the  state  of  his  own  health.  He 
was  growing  stronger  and  the  danger  of  consumption,  which 
in  England  had  seemed  imminent,  had  passed  away.  But  he 
was  tormented  with  acute  pains  for  which  the  doctors  were 
at  a  loss  to  ascribe  a  cause,  and  with  occasional  spasms  that 
endangered  his  life.  The  Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near 
Naples  in  December  1818  contains  that  beautiful  verse  which 
is  the  cry  of  a  gentle  spirit  heavily  oppressed  : 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Kven  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  coidd  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 

Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, — 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Early  in  1819  the  Shelleys  moved  to  Rome,  and  there,  in 
June,  Shelley's  little  son,  William,  died.  He  had  now  no 
children  save  those  far  away  in  England  who  were  growing  up 
with  no  knowledge  of  their  father.  His  friends  tell  with  what 
devotion  he  had  nursed  the  boy  in  his  short  illness,  and  how 
utterly  heartbroken  he  was  when  the  end  came.  But  grief 
seemed  to  drive  him  to  poetical  expression  as  a  means  of 
rehef.  At  leghorn,  where  he  removed  soon  after  his  son's 
death,  he  resumed  his  great  work  Prometheus  Unbound,  and 
began  and  finished  The  Cenci.  The  first  of  these  works 
contains  the  lyric  at  which  many  critics  have  cavilled,  and 
some  have  sneered  : 

Life  of  Ivife  !  thy  Ups  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them  ; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire  ;   then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  the  critics  have  asked  ;   and 
even  the  most  devoted  student  of  Shelley  might  be  puzzled  to 

2£  425 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

put  the  verse  into  plain  prose.  Shelley  did  not  hold  the 
Wordsworthian  theory  that  poetry  is  only  prose,  with  metre 
superadded,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  express  the  conceptions 
of  his  fervent  imagination  in  plain,  deliberate  language.  But 
the  obscurity  is  rather  verbal  than  real ;  and  the  '  exciting 
and  elevating  '  quality  of  Shelley's  verse  is  nowhere  more 
plainly  felt  than  in  this  lyric. 

The  great  year  of  1819  saw  not  only  the  two  long  poems  that 
have  been  mentioned,  but  also  some  shorter  lyrics  come  into 
being.  The  most  wonderful  among  these  is  the  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind,  which  to  attempt  to  appraise  here  would  be  an 
impertinence.  It  belongs  to  those  works  which  lie  far  above 
criticism  and  are  apprehended  not  so  much  by  the  intelligence 
as  by  the  spirit. 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being. 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven  like  ghosts  from  an  enchante  fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :   O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  wingdd  seeds,  where  they  Ue  cold  and  low. 
Each  hke  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  hke  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  Uving  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  oh  hear  ! 

This  was  written  at  Florence,  whither  the  Shelleys  had  gone 
in  the  autumn  of  18 19,  and  here  Prometheus  Unbound  was 
finished.  In  January  1820  the  wanderers  found  a  resting- 
place  at  Pisa,  where  they  remained  until  April  1822.  I/ife 
here  passed  calmly  and  happily.  Shelley's  cousin.  Captain 
Medwin,  came  out  from  England  to  stay  with  him,  and  he 
became  intimate  with  the  circle  of  the  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams 
who  have  before  been  mentioned.  He  wrote  industriously, 
and  his  verses  ranged  from  familiar  epistles  to  inspired  lyrics 
like  The  Cloud  and  the  Ode  to  a  Skylark,  which  are  probably 
426 


SHELLEY'S    LYRICS 

the  best  known  of  all  his  works  In  December  came  the  news 
that  Keats  had  died  at  Rome,  and  Shelley's  generous,  but,  as 
it  proved,  mistaken  sympathy  found  expression  in  the  great 
elegy,  Adonais.  In  August  182 1  he  paid  a  visit  to  Lord  Byron, 
who  was  then  living  at  Ravenna.  In  order  to  be  near  Shelley, 
Byron  removed  to  Pisa  in  November  1821,  and  from  that  time 
until  the  end  of  Shelley's  life,  which  came  seven  months  later, 
the  two  poets  once  more  lived  in  familiar  daily  intercourse. 
They  went  sailing  on  the  Arno  and  practised  pistol-shooting 
together,  then  returned  home  and  talked  far  into  the  night. 
Some  part  of  each  day  Shelley  spent  in  solitude,  wandering 
in  the  great  pine  wood  near  Pisa,  with  a  book,  or  a  lyric  in  the 
making.  The  beautiful  Swiftly  walk  over  the  Western  Wave, 
belongs  to  this  period,  and  Trelawny  tells  how  he  found  the 
poet  one  day  lying  under  a  tree  with  the  manuscript  of  the 
lyric  Ariel,  to  Miranda  take,  which  "  might  have  been  taken 
for  a  sketch  of  a  marsh  overgrown  with  bulrushes,  and  the 
blots  for  wild  ducks."  On  the  whole  Byron's  companionship 
was  not  favourable  to  Shelley's  poetic  activity.  Shelley  was  so 
naturally  humble-minded,  and  had  such  a  sincere  admiration 
for  the  genius  of  his  friend  that  he  was  led  to  underrate  his 
own  powers  and  become  discouraged.  "  What  think  you  of 
lyord  B.'s  last  volume  ?  "  he  wrote.  "  In  my  opinion  it 
contains  finer  poetry  than  has  appeared  in  England  since 
Paradise  Lost."  In  1822  he  wrote  to  Leigh  Hunt,  "  I  do  not 
write,  I  have  lived  too  long  near  Lord  Byron,  and  the  sun  has 
extinguished  the  glow-worm."  Nevertheless,  he  was  not 
without  a  just  conception  of  the  merits  of  his  own  poetry. 
"  This  I  know,"  he  once  said,  "  that  whether  in  prosing  or  in 
versing,  there  is  something  in  my  writings  that  shall  live  for 
ever." 

In  the  spring  of  1822  Byron  took  a  villa  near  Leghorn,  and 
the  rest  of  the  party  left  Pisa  for  a  house  at  Lerici  on  the  Gulf 
of  Spezia,  where  they  intended  to  spend  the  summer.  Both 
Byron  and  Shelley,  before  leaving  Pisa,  had  a  yacht  built  for 
excursions  on  the  sea.  Byron's  yacht  was  called  the  Bolivar 
and  Shelley's  the  Ariel.     In  the  Ariel  Shelley  spent  the  greater 

^27 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

part  of  each  day,  meditating  his  last  great  unfinished  poem, 
The  Triumph  of  Life,  in  which  he  sees  pass  by  the  great  of  all 
the  ages  in  a  slow  majestic  procession.  The  last  words  that 
he  wrote  were,  **  *  Then  what  is  I^ife  ?  '  I  cried."  The  time 
was  rapidly  coming  for  Shelley,  when  this,  and  all  the  questions 
that  had  vexed  him  on  earth  would  trouble  him  no  more. 

On  the  1st  of  July  Shelley  and  his  friend  WiHiams  started 
in  the  yacht  Ariel  for  I^eghorn,  to  meet  I^eigh  Hunt,  who  was 
coming  out  to  help  Byron  in  establishing  a  newspaper  which 
was  to  be  called  the  Liberal,  and  which  was  to  be  used  as  a 
medium  for  the  publication  of  the  works  which,  from  their 
daring,  unconventional  character  his  publishers  might  hesitate 
to  accept.  The  project  had  been  warmly  supported  by  Shelley, 
who  loved  the  kindly,  open-hearted  Hunt,  and  was  anxious 
to  help  him  to  a  position  which  would  relieve  him  from  the 
money  difl&culties  in  which  he  was  involved.  The  travelling 
expenses  of  Hunt  and  his  family  had  been  met  by  means  of  a 
loan  from  Shelley,  and  on  the  news  of  their  arrival  he  hastened 
to  do  what  he  could  for  their  comfort.  He  established  them 
in  Byron's  Palazzo  at  I^eghorn,  and  early  on  the  next  day  set 
out  on  the  return  voyage  to  I^erici.  There  was  only  one  sailor 
on  board  with  Williams  and  Shelley.  In  the  afternoon  a 
great  tempest  came  on.  It  lasted  for  only  twenty  minutes, 
and  after  it  was  over,  Trelawny,  who  was  on  board  Byron's 
yacht  in  the  harbour  of  lyeghorn  looked  in  vain  for  the  Httle 
Ariel,    She  had  gone  down  in  that  brief  storm. 

For  a  week  the  anxious  friends  searched  all  along  the  shore. 
On  July  i8,  Shelley's  body  was  cast  up  near  Via  Reggio.  In 
one  pocket  of  his  jacket  was  a  volume  of  Sophocles,  in  the 
other  the  poems  of  Keats,  '*  doubled  back,  as  if  the  reader,  in 
the  act  of  reading  had  hastily  thrust  it  away."  The  other 
bodies  were  cast  up  some  miles  further  along  the  coast.  The 
body  of  Shelley  was  temporarily  buried  in  the  sand,  and,  on 
August  i6,  a  pile  was  built  there,  and  it  was  cremated.  Byron, 
lycigh  Hunt,  and  Trelawny  were  present.  "  The  lonely  and 
grand  scenery  that  surrounded  us  so  exactly  harmonized  with 
Shelley's  genius,  that  I  could  imagine  his  spirit  soaring  over 
428 


SHELLEY'S    LYRICS 

us.  The  sea,  with  the  islands  of  Gorgona,  Cupraja  and  Elba, 
was  before  us  ;  old  battlemented  watch-towers  stretched  along 
the  coast,  backed  by  the  marble-crested  Apennines  glistening 
in  the  sun,  picturesque  from  their  diversified  outlines,  and  not 
a  human  dwelling  was  in  sight.'*  The  ashes  were  laid  in  the 
burial-ground  at  Rome,  near  those  of  Keats,  and  of  Shelley's 
son,  Wilham. 

Less  than  two  years  later  Byron  also  was  dead.  In  July 
1823  he,  with  Trelawny,  sailed  from  Genoa  to  Greece,  for  the 
purpose  of  offering  themselves  as  volunteers  in  the  Greek  War 
of  Liberation.  They  arrived  in  Greece  early  in  August  and 
were  received  with  great  warmth.  Byron  was  appointed  to  a 
command  and  behaved  with  the  greatest  bravery  and  wisdom. 
But  his  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  hardships  of  this  new 
way  of  life.  Food  was  scarce,  and  the  house  that  he 
occupied  was  situated  on  low,  boggy  ground,  from  which 
constant  exhalations  arose.  On  April  11,  1824,  he  fell  ill 
with  rheumatic  fever,  and  on  the  19th  he  died. 

In  Greece  he  was  deeply  and  universally  mourned.  His 
body  was  embalmed,  and  the  funeral  service  performed  at 
Missolonghi,  with  all  the  honours  commonly  given  to  a  prince 
of  the  royal  line.  Afterward  the  remains  were  taken  to 
England,  and  buried  in  the  village  church  at  Hucknall. 

On  the  22nd  of  the  previous  July,  the  day  on  which  he 
completed  his  thirty-sixth  year,  Byron  had  written  his  last 
poem,  the  two  concluding  verses  of  which  may  serve  in  some 
sense  as  his  epitaph. 

If  thou  regret 'st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here  : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

Seek  out — ^less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


429 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
ENDYMION 

DURING  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
ushered  in  by  the  pubHcation  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 
there  was  formed  in  lyondon  a  little  group  of  literary 
men  which  was  only  second  in  importance  to  that  other  group 
whose  members  were  making  the  name  of  the  I^ake  Country 
famous.  Chief  among  these — the  "  Cockneys,"  as  they  were 
called  by  scornful  reviewers — was  I^eigh  Hunt.  He  stood  first 
not  because  he  was  the  greatest  writer,  but  because  of  his 
influence  over  his  companions.  Through  him  the  different 
members  of  the  group  were  drawn  and  kept  together.  At  his 
pleasant  house  at  Hampstead,  they  all  met,  and  at  his  frequent 
and  informal  supper-parties  works  which  have  since  become 
English  classics  were  suggested  or  discussed.  Among  those 
who  came  often  was  Shelley,  a  tall,  slim,  youthful  figure  with 
bright  wild  eyes,  and  pale,  beautiful  face.  Charles  I^amb  came 
sometimes  from  his  lodgings  in  the  Inner  Temple,  and  sat 
among  the  company  shy  and  silent,  until  excitement  and  good 
fellowship  unloosed  his  tongue,  and  drove  from  his  sweet  and 
delicate  face  the  lines  of  suffering  commonly  to  be  seen  there. 
WilHam  HazHtt,  the  essayist,  worn  and  thin  and  saturnine, 
gave  pungency  to  the  conversation  by  his  rough  and  down- 
right criticisms.  Horace  Smith  (author  of  The  Baby's  Debut), 
and  his  no  less  witty  brother  vied  with  their  host  and  with 
Charles  Lamb  in  the  making  of  puns,  which,  on  these  evenings 
flowed  in  a  continuous  stream.  Charles  Cowden  Clarke, 
honourably  known  by  his  work  in  connexion  with  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare,  listened  and  commented  in  his  quiet  sensible 
fashion,  and  there  were  many  other  guests  who,  well  known 
430 


ENDYMION 

in  their  own  day,  have  not  been  kept  in  remembrance  by  later 
generations.  Leigh  Hunt  himself,  and  the  place  of  meeting  shall 
be  described  in  the  words  of  Shelley,  written  some  years  after, 
from  his  home  in  Italy  in  a  poetical  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne 

You  will  see  Hunt ;   one  of  those  happy  souls 
Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 
This  world  would  smell  hke  what  it  is,  a  tomb  ; 
Who  is,  what  others  seem.     His  room  no  doubt. 
Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  case  from  Shout, 
With  graceful  flowers  tastefully  placed  about ; 
And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  himg, 
And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder  flung. 
The  gifts  of  the  most  leam'd  among  some  dozens 
Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law,  and  cousins. 
And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns. 
Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 
Thimdering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door  ; 
Alas  !   it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I'm  poor  1  " — 
Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  were  ever  read  in  book. 
Except  in  Shakespeare's  wisest  tenderness 

One  evening  in  the  spring  of  1816,  Cowden  Clarke  brought 
with  him  to  Hunt's  cottage  some  poems  in  manuscript  written 
by  a  friend  of  his,  John  Keats.  Keats,  he  explained,  was  the 
son  of  a  livery  stable  proprietor,  and  had  been  a  scholar  at  his 
(Cowden  Clarke's)  father's  school  at  Enfield.  He  had  after- 
ward been  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon,  and  had  come  up  to 
London  in  1814  to  study  at  Guy's  Hospital.  He  was  not  yet 
twenty-one  years  old,  and  was  Uving  with  his  two  brothers 
in  lodgings  in  St.  Thomas's  Street.  Hunt  and  Horace  Smith, 
who  happened  to  be  with  him,  were  surprised  and  deUghted  at 
the  quality  of  the  poems.  They  eagerly  questioned  Cowden 
Clarke  about  the  personaHty  of  the  author,  and  begged  him 
to  bring  John  Keats,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  one  of  their  evening 
gatherings.  Accordingly,  there  accompanied  Cowden  Clarke 
on  his  next  visit  a  sHght,  short,  but  well-proportioned  youth 
with  a  countenance  "  of  singular  beauty  and  brightness  "  and 
an  expression  "as  if  he  had  been  looking  on  some  glorious 
sight."     This  was  John  Keats. 

Keats  soon  became  very  intimate  at  the  Hampstead  cottage. 
Hunt's  genial  cheerfulness  and  optimistic  view  of  life  raised 

411 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  spirits  of  the  younger  man  and  encouraged  him  in  his 
work.     The  love  of  beauty,  which  in  Keats  was  a  passion,  i 
existed  in  Hunt  in  the  milder  form  of  a  keen  capacity  for  \ 
sensuous  enjoyment,  and  the  two  luxuriated  together  over  i 
green  fields,   and  blue  skies  and  summer  rain — over  their  ; 
favourite  books,  especially  the  Faerie  Queene,  and  the  litera-  ; 
ture  of  ancient  Greece,  which  latter,  however,  Keats  could 
read  only  in  translations.    His  appreciation  of  the  cordial  hospi- 
tality offered  him  by  Hunt  was  keen,  and  is  recorded  in  several  | 
of  his  poems.     One  of  these  tells  of  his  feelings  on  the  lonely  \ 
walk  home  after  he  had  left  his  friend's  house.  j 

For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness  | 

That  in  a  httle  cottage  I  have  found.  jl 

Keats  soon  became  known  to  all  Hunt's  intimates.  Shelley  ^ 
he  did  not  meet  until  the  spring  of  1 8 17,  and  then  he  responded  ^ 
but  coldly  to  the  advances  which  the  other  made  with  such  ] 
warmth  and  eagerness.  He  suspected  Shelley,  the  heir  to  an  > 
old  and  wealthy  baronetcy,  of  some  hidden  contempt  for  the  I 
son  of  a  keeper  of  livery  stables.  He  was,  says  Hunt,  "  a  little  ' 
too  sensitive  on  the  score  of  his  origin,"  and  *'  felt  inclined  | 
to  see  in  every  man  of  birth  a  sort  of  natural  enemy."  So  \ 
the  two  poets,  though  they  met  many  times  during  the  months 
that  followed,  never  really  became  friends. 

All  this  time  Keats  was  going  on  with  his  studies  at  the 
hospital,  and  was  doing  his  work  steadily  and  conscientiously,  j 
though  without  enthusiasm.     In   October    1816  he   came  of  ( 
age,  and,  encouraged  by  his  friends  and  by  his  two  brothers,  \ 
who  were  among  his  most  sincere  admirers,  he  resolved  to  • 
devote  himself  entirely  to  poetry.     The  brothers  had  inherited  I 
2l  small  sum  of  money,  enough  for  present  necessities,  though  - 
not  enough  to  afford  them  a  permanent  income,  and  with  this  j 
very  insufficient  barrier  between  himself  and  want,   Keats 
made  his  venture.    In  March  1817  he  published  his  first 
volume  of  poems.    They  were  not  of  any  very  great  poetical  i 
merit,  the  well-known  sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer  stood  \ 
highest.     But  they  showed  rich  promise  of  better  things  in  | 
their  intense  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  their  note  of  | 
43^  i 


John  Keats 
William  Hilton,  R.A. 


432 


{■  ENDYMION 

entire  abandonment  to  poetic  impulse.  "  Here  is  a  young 
poet/*  wrote  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  paper,  The  Examiner,  "  giving 
himself  up  to  his  own  impressions,  and  revelling  in  real  poetry 
for  its  own  sake."  Hunt's  personal  knowledge  of  Keats 
helped  him  to  a  true  appreciation  of  the  poems,  and  his  review 
was  marked  equally  by  kindliness  and  insight.  But  other  less 
interested  critics  saw  nothing  in  the  little  volume  to  call  for 
special  notice.  Few  copies  were  sold.  A  public  that  was  still 
raving  over  Childe  Harold  and  The  Corsair  could  scarcely  be 
expected  to  admire  the  quieter  and  very  different  beauties 
contained  in  these  early  poems  of  Keats,  and  the  reviewers 
were  still  occupied  with  the  '  I^ake  Poets '  and  Wordsworth's 
Excursion.  But  the  turn  of  the  '  Cockney  School  *  was  soon 
to  come. 

Keats  accepted  the  failure  of  his  first  venture  in  a  manly 
and  modest  spirit.  He  was  not  disheartened,  but  was,  instead, 
stirred  up  to  greater  efforts.  His  friends  thought  that  retire- 
ment and  solitude  would  help  to  mature  his  powers  for  the 
accomplishment  of  some  really  great  work.  In  April  1817, 
therefore,  Keats  left  Ivondon  and  went  to  stay  at  the  Isle  of 
Wight. 

Unwonted  soUtude  among  new  and  lovely  surroundings 
wrought  Keats  to  such  a  state  of  excited  sensibility  as  drove 
him  to  poetic  composition.  The  day  after  his  arrival  at  the 
Isle  of  Wight  he  sent  to  one  of  his  friends  the  beautiful  sonnet 
On  the  Sea,  beginning  : 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 
Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  spell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns. 

"I  find  I  cannot  do  without  poetry,"  he  wrote,  in  the  letter 
that  accompanied  the  sonnet,  "  without  eternal  poetry  ;  half 
the  day  will  not  do — the  whole  of  it.  I  began  with  a  little, 
but  habit  has  made  me  a  leviathan.  I  had  become  all  in  a 
tremble  from  not  having  written  anything  of  late  :  the  sonnet 
overleaf  did  me  good  ;  I  slept  the  better  last  night  for  it ;  this 
morning,  however,  I  am  nearly  as  bad  again.  I  shall  forthwith 
begin  my  Endymion" 

433 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

That  this  overwrought  condition  was  not  entirely  healthy  ' 
Keats  himself  was  fully  conscious.  "  In  a  week  or  so,"  he 
wrote  to  I/cigh  Hunt,  "  I  became  not  over-capable  in  my  ' 
upper  stories,  and  set  off  pell-mell  for  Margate."  At  Margate 
worries  concerning  money  brought  another  disturbing  influence.  ' 
"  Truth  is,"  wrote  Keats,  "  I  have  a  horrid  Morbidity  of  ' 
Temperament,  which  has  shown  itself  at  intervals ;  it  is,  I  i 
have  no  doubt,  the  greatest  Enemy  and  stumbling-block  I  . 
have  to  fear."  Yet  through  excitement  and  dejection  Endy-  ! 
mion  went  steadily  on.  Keats  was  bravely  trying  to  combat  j 
the  extreme  sensibility  which  tended  to  make  him  the  slave  | 
of  each  present  impulse.  He  had  set  himself  a  task  which  ! 
demanded  sustained  effort,  and  that  task  he  meant  to  fulfil.  \ 
*'  I  will  begin,"  he  wrote,  j 

Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ;  i 

Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new,  • 

And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue  j 

About  old  forests  ;  while  the  willow  trails  ' 

Its  deUcate  amber  ;   and  the  dairy  pails 

Bring  home  increase  of  milk      And,  as  the  year  | 

Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  Uttle  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 

With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers,  - 

Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write,  i 

Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white  i 

Hide  in  deep  herbage  ;   and  ere  yet  the  bees  t 

Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas,  ^ 

I  may  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story.  i 

O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary,  ' 

See  it  half  finish'd  :   but  let  Autimin  bold,  J 

With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold  i 

Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end.  j 

After  a  short  stay  at  Canterbury  with  his  brother  Tom — who 
was  already  in  an  advanced  stage  of  consumption,  the  disease  \ 
from  which  their  mother  had  died — ^the  poet  returned  to  ! 
lyondon.  The  brothers  moved  to  new  lodgings  at  Hampstead.  \ 
Here  their  old  friends  were  all  around  them,  and  new  friend-  ' 
ships  were  speedily  formed.  The  little  party  that,  during  the  ! 
winter,  had  met  in  Hunt's  cottage,  now  held  converse  on  | 
the  breezy  heath,  and  here,  walking  up  and  down,  Keats  | 
would  recite  to  his  friends  the  passages  in  the  poem  he  was  ] 
434 


ENDYMION 

writing  that  seemed  to  him  most  worthy  of  their  attention. 
His  beautiful  voice  had  in  it  those  low  rich  tones  that  stir  the 
heart,  and  as  he  went  on,  half-chanting  the  fervid,  melodious 
Hues,  his  dark  glowing  eyes  took  on  an  *'  inward  look,  perfectly 
divine,  like  a  Delphian  priestess  who  saw  visions."  It  is  no 
wonder  that  the  friends  who  heard  him  never  forgot  that 
summer  of  1817,  and  have  told  us  of  its  golden  days  in  tender, 
fervent  words.  Keats  was  happy  in  this  that  all  his  life  a 
little  band  of  devoted  friends  reverenced  him  as  a  poet  and 
loved  him  as  a  man.  They  neither  loved  nor  reverenced  him 
less  because  often  after  an  impassioned  recital  his  mood  would 
suddenly  change,  and  he  would  burst  into  hearty  boyish 
laughter  that  preluded  a  string  of  jokes  and  nonsense  which 
allowed  no  one  to  be  serious  again  for  the  rest  of  that  meeting  ; 
nor  because  he  was  obstinately  fixed  in  his  own  ideas  and 
opinions  and  upheld  them  with  pugnacity. 

Shelley  was  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  Endymion, 
and  invited  Keats  to  stay  with  him  at  his  house  at  Great 
Marlow,  and  continue  the  work  there.  But  Keats  declined  the 
invitation,  perhaps  suspecting  patronage,  perhaps  feeling  that 
he  could  write  better  in  his  own  home.  In  November 
Endymion  was  finished,  and  in  the  spring  of  the  next  year 
it  was  published. 

Its  story  is  the  story  of  the  beautiful  youth  who,  as  the 
classic  legend  tells,  was  beloved  by  the  moon.  By  her  power 
he  was  cast  into  an  eternal  sleep  on  Mount  Latmus,  and  here 
every  night  she  visited  him,  having  inspired  him  with  a  love 
equal  to  her  own.  This  theme  Keats  expanded  and  embroi- 
dered in  his  own  rich  and  glowing  fashion.  The  poem  is  full 
of  crudities  and  of  lapses  which,  if  we  Uke  to  use  a  harsh  name, 
may  even  be  called  absurdities,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  great 
and  memorable  work.  Its  opening  line  has  passed  into  a 
proverb,  and  the  passage  which  follows  is  typical,  in  its  glowing 
beauty,  of  the  finest  parts  of  the  poem. 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;   it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness  ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

435 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er -darkened  ways 

Made  for  our  searching  :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  stm,  the  moon, 

Trees  old,  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep  ;   and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;   and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;   the  mid  forest  brake. 

Rich  with  a  sprinkUng  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms  : 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read  : 

And  endless  fountains  of  immortal  drink. 

Pouring  imto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

The  poem  does  not  entirely  fulfil  the  promise  of  this  beginning. 
Taken  as  a  whole  it  is  a  confused  and  almost  formless  piece  of 
work,  open  to  criticism  at  almost  every  point.  But  the  rich- 
ness of  the  verse  and  the  fine  harmonies  that  rise  and  fall  and 
die  away  and  rise  again  as  it  proceeds,  draw  the  reader  on  from 
one  beautiful  passage  to  the  next,  which  never  lies  very 
far  away.  The  preface  which  Keats  wrote  to  this  work  is  a 
memorable  one.  "  Knowing  within  myself  the  manner  in 
which  this  Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a 
feeling  of  regret  that  I  make  it  public. 

"  What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the  reader, 
who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and 
every  error  denoting  a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a  deed 
accomplished.  The  two  first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last, 
I  feel  sensible  are  not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their 
passing  the  press ;  nor  should  they  if  I  thought  a  year's 
castigation  would  do  them  any  good  ;  it  will  not :  the  founda- 
tions are  too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this  youngster  should  die 
away  :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not  some  hope  that 
while  it  is  dwindling  I  may  be  plotting,  and  fitting  myself  for 
verses  fit  to  live." 

No  self-criticism  could  have  been  conceived  in  a  juster  or  a 
436 


ENDYMION 

saner  spirit,  and  this  preface  goes  far  toward  clearing  Keats 
from  the  charge  of  feverish  vanity  which  is  one  of  the  many 
charges  that  have  been  brought  against  him. 

A  month  or  so  after  Endymion  was  published,  Keats  started  on 
a  walking  tour  through  Scotland  with  his  friend  Charles  Brown. 
The  expedition  was  a  disastrous  one.  Bad  food  and  exposure 
to  the  weather  made  Keats  so  ill  that  early  in  August  he  was 
obliged  to  give  up  the  rest  of  the  tour  and  go  home  from 
Inverness  as  quickly  as  possible.  From  this  illness  he  never 
really  recovered.  His  hereditary  tendency  to  consumption 
developed  rapidly,  and  in  little  more  than  two  years  brought 
his  life  to  an  end. 

He  arrived  in  I/ondon  just  in  time  for  the  reviews  of  Endy- 
mion which  had  appeared  in  the  leading  magazines.  Black- 
wood's had  for  some  time  been  devoting  itself  to  the  castigation 
of  the  Cockney  School,  and  Keats  had  aheady  been  referred  to 
as  an  "  amiable  bardling,"  *'  the  puling  satellite  of  the  arch- 
offender  and  king  of  Cockaigne,  Hunt."  In  the  August 
number  Blackwood  settled  down  to  demolish  his  new  poem. 
The  article,  like  others  of  the  series,  was  signed  Z,  and  the 
name  of  the  writer  has  never  been  certainly  ascertained;  it 
was  probably  lyockhart,  son-in-law  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
was  on  the  staff  of  Blackwood  and  had  by  the  sharpness  of  his 
reviews  gained  for  himself  the  name  of  the  '  Scorpion.'  "  The 
frenzy  of  the  Poems ^  the  writer  says,  "  was  bad  enough  in  its 
way  ;  but  it  did  not  alarm  us  half  so  seriously  as  the  calm, 
settled,  imperturbable,  drivelling  idiocy  of  Endymion.  .  .  . 
Back  to  the  shop,  Mr.  John,  back  to  plaster,  pills,  and  ointment 
boxes."  In  September  The  Quarterly  Review  followed  with  an 
article  of  a  similar  character.  The  writer,  after  acknowledging 
that  he  had  only  read  the  first  book  of  Endymion,  of  which  he 
could  make  nothing,  goes  on  to  accuse  '  Johnny  Keats '  of 
being  a  mere  copyist  of  Mr.  I^eigh  Hunt,  only  "  ten  times  more 
tiresome  and  absurd  than  his  prototype."  "It  is  not,"  he 
says,  "  that  the  author  has  not  powers  of  language,  rays  of 
fancy,  and  gleams  of  genius — ^he  has  all  these ;  but  he  is,  un- 
happily, a  disciple  of  the  new  school  of  what  has  been  some- 

437 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

where  called  Cockney  poetry  ;  which  may  be  defined  to 
consist  of  the  most  incongruous  ideas  in  the  most  uncouth 
language." 

Keats,  who  had  himself  been  strongly  conscious  of  the 
defects  of  his  work,  was  less  moved  by  these  reviews  than  were 
his  indignant  friends.  The  popular  idea  of  his  having  been 
"  snuffed  out  by  an  article,"  is  entirely  false.  "  Praise  or 
blame,"  he  wrote,  to  a  friend  who  had  sent  him  various  cuttings 
from  newspapers,  in  which  his  work  was  defended,  and  his 
critics  attacked,  "  has  but  a  momentary  effect  on  the  man 
whose  love  of  beauty  in  the  abstract  makes  him  a  severe  critique 
on  his  own  Works.  My  own  domestic  criticism  has  given  me  pain 
without  comparison  beyond  what  Blackwood  or  the  Quarterly 
could  possibly  inflict."  It  is  true  that  by  this  time  his  health 
began  rapidly  to  fail,  but  that  was  due  not  to  the  reviews,  but 
to  the  development  of  his  consumptive  tendency,  and  to  the 
violence  of  the  attachment  that  he  conceived  for  a  Miss 
Fanny  Brawne,  a  neighbour  of  his  friend,  Charles  Brown. 
His  passion  took  entire  possession  of  him,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  marriage — his  own  money  was  now  all  spent,  and 
he  was  living  on  loans  from  his  friends — constantly  tormented 
him. 

Yet  in  spite  of  these  troubles  his  poetic  work  went  on.  In 
1820  was  published  a  volume  containing  some  of  his  finest 
poems.  Lamia  and  Hyperion,  like  Endymion,  deal  with  the 
life  of  the  ancient  Greeks.  Isabella  and  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 
are  romantic  poems,  touching  the  old  mediaeval  legends.  The 
very  finest  work  in  the  book  is  contained  in  the  three  great 
odes — Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn,  Ode  to 
Autumn.  In  them  the  promise  of  Endymion  is  grandly 
fulfilled. 

While  this  volume  was  passing  through  the  press,  came 
Keats's  first  attack  of  haemorrhage,  showing  that  the  disease 
from  which  he  was  suffering  had  reached  an  acute  stage. 
After  some  weeks  he  rallied,  but  the  attacks  recurred,  and  his 
health  declined  rapidly.  The  news  of  the  success  of  his  book 
and  of  a  favourable  notice  in  The  Edinburgh  Review,  though  it 
438 


ENDYMION 

cheered,  could  not  help  him.  As  the  summer  drew  to  an  end 
the  doctors  strongly  advised  him  to  leave  England  for  Italy 
Shelley,  who  was  then  at  Pisa,  wrote  with  the  utmost  kindness 
and  delicacy  inviting  Keats  to  be  his  guest  for  the  winter.  But 
this  invitation,  like  the  former  one,  was  declined,  in  a  letter 
which,  however,  shows  the  writer's  deep  appreciation  of  the 
friendliness  of  the  offer.  Keats  decided  at  last  to  go  to  Rome, 
and,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  Joseph  Severn,  he  set  out  on 
September  i8.  The  story  of  these  last  months  of  Keats' s  life 
is  a  story  of  ever-increasing  bodily  and  mental  agony,  but  it  is 
made  beautiful  by  the  unselfish  devotion  of  Severn,  who  gave 
up  his  own  work  and  all  thoughts  of  his  own  advancement  to 
tend  his  dying  friend.  On  February  23,  182 1,  the  end  came, 
quietly  and  peacefully. 

Keats  was  buried  in  the  English  burying-place  at  Rome. 
On  his  tomb  was  inscribed  the  epitaph  that  he  himself  had 
asked  Severn  to  place  there  :  "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was 
writ  in  water."  We  know  now  how  mistaken  was  this  mournful 
self-judgment.  The  name  of  the  poet  who  died  before  he  had 
finished  his  twenty-fifth  year  is  written  in  immortal  letters 
on  the  roll  of  fame,  among  the  names  of  the  greatest  of  his 
brethren.  His  memory  lives  in  his  own  poems,  and  in  Shelley's 
magnificent  elegy,  Adonais. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain. 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight. 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again. 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey,  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  bum. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


439 


CHAPTER  XLIV 
PRIDE    AND    PREJUDICE 

IN  1796,  when  Fanny  Burney  (or  Madame  d'Arblay  as  she 
then  was)  published  almost  her  last  novel,  Camilla, 
the  subscription  list  contained  all  the  greatest  names 
in  England  ;  but  there  was  one  name,  then  quite  unknown, 
which  to-day  we  regard  with  as  much  interest  as  those  of  even 
Edmund  Burke  and  Warren  Hastings  :  **  Miss  J.  Austen, 
Steventon  Rectory."  The  noble  ladies  who  undertook  the 
management  of  Madame  d'Arblay's  subscription  list  knew 
nothing  of  Miss  J.  Austen,  save  that  she  had  paid  the  guinea 
entitling  her  to  a  copy  of  Camilla  ;  and  in  due  time  this  was 
dispatched.  It  travelled  down  by  coach  through  Winchester 
and  on  to  Basingstoke,  and  was  dropped,  we  expect,  at  the  inn 
at  the  corner  of  Popham  I^ane,  which  was  the  point  on  the 
high  road  nearest  to  Steventon  Rectory.  From  there  it  was 
probably  fetched  by  one  of  the  rectory  servants  who  brought 
it  back  through  a  network  of  lanes  to  the  small  and  straggUng 
village  of  Steventon,  where,  at  the  old-fashioned  house  in  the 
valley,  two  sisters  were  eagerly  awaiting  him.  The  younger 
of  these  was  a  slim,  graceful  girl  of  twenty,  with  a  bright 
intelligent  face,  a  brilliant  complexion,  and  hazel  eyes  full  of 
fun  and  laughter,  though  they  could  look  demure  enough 
upon  occasion.  This  was  Miss  Jane  Austen,  youngest  of 
the  rector  of  Steventon's  seven  children.  The  other  sister, 
Cassandra,  was  three  years  older  than  Jane,  and  resembled  her 
in  general  appearance.  We  can  imagine  these  two  girls  as 
they  slipped  out  on  this  particular  November  afternoon  to 
watch  for  the  eagerly  expected  letters  and  parcels.  They  were 
dressed  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  period,  in  long,  narrow- 
440 


PRIDE    &    PREJUDICE 

skirted,  high-waisted  muslin  gowns,  with  thin  heelless  sHppers 
fastened  by  crossed  elastic.  Each  girl's  hair  was  neatly 
tucked  away  under  a  close-fitting  muslin  cap.  They  must 
have  shivered  as  they  waited  in  the  gathering  gloom  for  the 
return  of  their  messenger. 

Camilla  was  received  with  rapture.  The  two  girls,  and 
indeed  the  whole  family  were  great  novel-readers,  and  had 
read  and  cried  over  Evelina  and  Cecilia  long  before.  They 
were  interested  in  the  author  even  more  than  in  her  books. 
Vague  scraps  of  gossip  only  had  reached  them  concerning  the 
life  of  Fanny  Burney,  but  they  knew  how  she  had  published 
when  she  was  only  sixteen — for  so  the  common  story  ran — a 
novel  that  had  taken  the  town  by  storm.  The  story  of  her 
success,  and  of  how  she  had  become  the  idol  of  London  society 
and  the  favourite  of  royalty  had  a  special  interest  for  the 
younger  sister.  Fanny  Burney  had  done  this,  then  why  not 
Jane  Austen,  for  she,  too,  had,  from  her  childhood,  been  fond 
of  scribbUng.  In  the  sisters'  room  upstairs  there  was  a  little 
pile  of  copy-books,  full  of  tales  written  in  her  small  and  even 
hand.  There  was  also,  at  the  very  time  Camilla  was  received, 
one  particular  story,  lately  begun,  in  which  the  young  authoress 
felt  a  tender  pride.  She  had  called  it  First  Impressions, 
because  it  was  her  earliest  serious  attempt  to  paint  the  people 
whom  she  saw  around  her  every  day — the  country  squires, 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  the  clergymen,  the  fine  ladies, 
the  dashing  officers,  and  the  well-to-do  townsfolk  who  were  to 
be  met  at  the  balls  and  assemblies  with  which  the  neighbourly 
Hampshire  families  relieved  the  tedium  of  country  life.  No 
one  enjoyed  these  gatherings  more  than  did  the  lively  Miss 
Austen,  and  no  one  observed  with  a  keener  or  more  humorous  , 
eye  the  foibles  and  absurdities  of  the  company.  In  a  letter 
written  to  her  sister,  giving  an  account  of  a  ball  that  had 
taken  place  while  Cassandra  was  away  from  home,  she  said  : 
**  There  were  very  few  beauties,  and  such  as  there  were  not 
very  handsome.  Miss  Iremonger  did  not  look  well,  and  Mrs. 
Blount  was  the  only  one  much  admired.  She  appeared 
exactly  as  she  did  in  September,  with  the  same  broad  face, 

2F  441 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  ■ 

diamond  bandeau,  white  shoes,  pink  husband,  and  fat  neck. 
The  two  Miss  Coxes  were  there  :   I  traced  in  one  the  remains  j 
of  the  vulgar  broad-featured  girl  who  danced  at  Enham  eight  I 
years  ago.    The  other  is  refined  into  a  nice  composed-looking ' 
girl,  like  Catherine  Bigg.     I  looked  at  Sir  Thomas  Champneys,  i 
and  thought  of  poor  Rosalie ;    I  looked  at  his  daughter  and 
thought  her  a  queer  animal  with  a  long  neck."     There  is  aj 
touch  of  ill-nature  in  the  description,  but  from  this  Miss  I 
Austen's  published  works  are  completely  free.    I^ike  Elizabeth  ; 
Bennet,  the  heroine  of  her  first  novel,  she  "  dearly  loves  a 
laugh,"  but,  like  EHzabeth  again,  she  disclaims  being  classed 
with  those  people  "  whose  first  object  in  life  is  a  joke."      '*  I  j 
hope  I  never  ridicule  what  is  wise  or  good.      Follies  and ' 
nonsense,  whims  and  inconsistencies,  do  divert  me,  I  own,  and  j 
I  laugh  at  them  whenever  I  can." 

First  Impressions  went  steadily  on,  and  within  the  year  it  I 
was  finished.  It  seems  to  have  been  read  to  the  family  and  I 
not  only  to  Jane's  especial  confidante,  Cassandra,  for  in  ■ 
November  1797,  the  Rev.  George  Austen  wrote  to  a  publisher  j 
in  London,  asking  him  if  he  would  undertake  the  publication  I 
of  "  a  novel  in  three  volumes  about  the  length  of  Miss  Burney's  1 
Evelina."  A  prompt  negative  was  returned,  and  the  idea  of  i 
publication  was  apparently  dropped. 

Whether  it  was  before  or  after  this  faint  effort  to  find  a 
publisher  that  the  title  of  the  novel  was  changed,  we  do  not  j 
know,  but  First  Impressions,  when  it  at  last  attained  the  ^ 
dignity  of  print,  appeared  as  Pride  and  Prejudice.     It  has  been 
suggested,  and  the  suggestion  bears  with  it  almost  a  conviction  , 
of  its  accuracy,  that  the  idea  of  this  title  was  given  by  Miss  1 
Burney's  Cecilia.     "  The  whole  of  this  unfortunate  business," 
declares  one  of  the  characters,  in  the  last  chapter,  when  the  ' 
plot  is  being  wound  up,  "  has  been  the  result  of  PRIDE  and 
PREJUDICE."     The  words  occur,  printed  in  large  type,  three  j 
times  on  one  page,  and  may  well  have  caught  Miss  Austen's  ! 
eye  as  she  turned  over  the  leaves  of  this  favourite  book.  ; 

Almost  immediately  after  First  Impressions  was  finished. 
Miss  Austen  began  another  story,  founded  on  an  early  sketch,  ' 
44^ 


^ 


Jane  Austen 


442 


r  PRIDE    &    PREJUDICE 

written  in  the  form  of  letters,  entitled  Eleanor  and  Marianne. 
This  developed  into  the  novel  Sense  and  Sensibility.  In  1798 
a  third  story,  Northanger  Abbey,  was  begun.  Its  scene  is  laid 
at  Bath,  to  which  fashionable  resort  Miss  Austen  had  paid 
frequent  visits.  This  was  written  more  slowly,  and  was  not 
finished  until  1803.  By  this  time  the  Austen  family  had  left 
Steventon  Rectory  and  were  settled  at  Bath,  Mr.  Austen 
having  given  up  the  living  to  his  eldest  son.  At  first  Jane  had 
been  in  despair  at  the  thought  of  leaving  all  the  familiar 
surroundings,  but  she  soon  began  to  look  favourably  upon  the 
proposed  change.  "  I  get  more  and  more  reconciled  to  the 
idea  of  our  removal/'  she  wrote.  "  We  have  lived  long  enough 
in  this  neighbourhood  ;  the  Basingstoke  balls  are  certainly  on 
the  decline  ;  there  is  something  interesting  in  the  bustle  of 
going  away  and  the  prospect  of  spending  future  summers  by 
the  sea  or  in  Wales  is  very  delightful.  For  a  time  we  shall 
now  possess  many  of  the  advantages  which  I  have  often 
thought  of  with  envy  in  the  wives  of  sailors  or  soldiers.  It 
must  not  be  generally  known,  however,  that  I  am  not  sacrificing 
a  great  deal  in  quitting  the  country,  or  I  can  expect  to  inspire 
no  tender  interest  in  those  we  leave  behind." 

After  much  tribulation  connected  with  house-hunting,  of 
which  Jane  tells  in  the  most  lively  style  in  her  letters,  the 
family  was  established  at  a  house  in  Sydney  Place.  The  house 
now  bears  a  tablet  with  the  inscription,  "  Here  lived  Jane 
Austen  from  1 801-1805."  During  this  time  she  finished 
Northanger  Abbey  and  sketched  a  new  book,  The  Watsons, 
which,  however,  she  never  finished.  She  entered  with  zest 
into  the  enlarged  opportunities  for  social  enjoyment.  "  I 
dressed  myself  as  well  as  I  could,"  she  wrote,  describing  her 
first  ball  at  Bath,  "  and  had  all  my  finery  much  admired  at 
home.  By  nine  o'clock  my  uncle,  aunt  and  I  entered  the 
Rooms,  and  linked  Miss  Winstone  on  to  us.  Before  tea  it  was 
rather  a  dull  affair  ;  but  then  tea  did  not  last  long,  for  there 
was  only  one  dance,  danced  by  four  couples  surrounded  by 
about  an  hundred  people  dancing  in  the  Upper  Rooms  at 
Bath  !    After  tea  we  cheered  up  ;  the  breaking  up  of  private 

4+3 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

parties  sent  some  scores  more  to  the  ball,  and  though  it  was 
shockingly  and  inhumanly  thin  for  this  place,  there  were 
people  enough,  I  suppose,  to  have  made  five  or  six  very  i^retty 
Basingstoke  assemblies." 

Before  the  Austens  left  Bath  Northanger  Abbey  was  offered 
to  a  bookseller  there,  and  bought  by  him  for  ten  pounds.  He 
probably  thought,  on  looking  through  it  that  the  strong  local 
element  would  bring  a  sufficient  sale  to  make  its  publication 
profitable  ;  but  further  consideration  seems  to  have  led  him 
to  change  his  opinion,  for  he  kept  it  unpublished  and  unnoticed 
for  thirteen  years. 

In  1805  Jane  Austen*s  father  died,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
year  she,  with  her  sister  Cassandra  and  her  mother,  went  to 
live  at  Southampton,  near  her  brother  Frank  and  his  wife. 
Here  they  stayed  until  1809,  when  they  moved  to  a  cottage 
at  Chawton,  north-west  of  Winchester.  In  the  familiar 
country  of  her  youth,  Jane,  after  a  long  interval  of  silence, 
once  more  began  to  write.  One  of  her  nieces  gives  an  amusing 
account  of  how  she  worked  at  these  later  books  during  a  visit 
to  her  brother's  house.  "  Aunt  Jane,"  she  said,  **  would  sit 
very  quietly  at  work  beside  the  fire  in  the  Godmersham  library, 
then  suddenly  burst  out  laughing,  jump  up,  cross  the  room  to 
a  distant  table  with  papers  lying  upon  it,  write  something 
down,  returning  presently  and  sitting  down  quietly  to  her 
work  again."  She  also  remembered  "  how  her  aunt  would  take 
the  elder  girls  into  an  upstairs  room  and  read  to  them  some- 
thing that  produced  peals  of  laughter,  to  which  the  little  ones 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door  listened,  thinking  it  very  hard 
that  they  should  be  shut  out  from  hearing  what  was  so 
delightful." 

In  181 1  Miss  Austen  published  at  her  own  expense  Sense 
and  Sensibility,  written  thirteen  years  before.  Her  name  was 
not  disclosed,  the  title-page  simply  bearing  the  words,  *  By  a 
I^ady,'  but  no  attempt  was  made  to  conceal  her  identity. 
The  book  had  a  satisfactory,  though  not  a  remarkable  sale, 
and  encouraged  by  this  Jane,  in  18 12,  set  to  work  on  Mansfield 
Park.    In  18 13  appeared  Pride  and  Prejudice,  the  bookseller 

444 


PRIDE  &  PREJUDICE 
this  time  taking  the  risk.  "  I  want  to  tell  you,"  wrote  Jane 
to  Cassandra,  "  that  I  have  got  my  own  darhng  child  from 
I^ondon  "  ;  and  later,  "  Miss  B.  dined  with  us  on  the  very 
day  of  the  book's  coming,  and  in  the  evening  we  fairly  set 
at  it,  and  read  half  the  first  volume  to  her.  .  .  .  She  was 
amused,  poor  soul !  That  she  could  not  help,  you  know,  with 
two  such  people  to  lead  the  way,  but  she  really  does  seem  to 
admire  Elizabeth.  I  must  confess  that  I  think  her  as  delightful 
a  creature  as  ever  appeared  in  print,  and  how  I  shall  be  able 
to  tolerate  those  who  do  not  like  her  at  least,  I  do  not  know. . .  • 
Upon  the  whole  I  am  quite  vain  enough  and  well  satisfied 
enough.  The  work  is  rather  too  light  and  bright  and  sparkling  ; 
it  wants  shade,  it  wants  to  be  stretched  out  here  and  there 
with  a  long  chapter  of  sense,  if  it  could  be  had  ;  if  not,  of 
solemn  specious  nonsense,  about  something  unconnected  with 
the  story  ;  an  essay  on  writing,  a  critique  on  Walter  Scott  or 
the  history  of  Buonaparte  or  something  that  would  form  a 
contrast,  and  bring  the  reader  with  increased  delight  to  the 
playfulness  and  epigrammatism  of  the  general  style."  It  will 
be  seen  that  Miss  Austen  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  merits  of 
her  work.  Her  praise,  however,  is  discriminating,  and  shows 
that  she  possessed  fine  critical  faculty.  We  may  be  thankful 
that  she  did  not  follow  out  her  own  playful  suggestion,  and 
attempt  to  give  her  work  the  serious  character  which,  according 
to  some  of  her  critics,  it  lacked,  by  inserting  among  her 
exquisitely  truthful  and  natural  descriptions  passages  of 
*  solemn,  specious  nonsense.' 

How  real  to  her  were  the  characters  she  had  known  so 
intimately  and  so  exclusively  for  fifteen  years  is  shown  by  a 
letter  written  during  a  visit  paid  to  her  brother  Henry  in 
lyondon  in  the  spring  of  1813.  She  is  describing  an  exhibition 
of  the  works  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  from  which  she  has  just 
returned.  She  tried,  she  says,  to  discover  among  the  portraits 
one  that  would  stand  for  Elizabeth  Bennet,  but  failed  to  do 
so.  "I  can  only  imagine  that  Darcy  prizes  any  picture  of 
her  too  much  to  like  it  should  be  exposed  to  the  public  eye.  I 
can  imagine  he  would  have  that  sort  of  feeling — ^that  mixture 

445 


/ 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

of  love,  pride,  and  delicacy."  She  found,  however,  a  picture 
which  represented  exactly  her  idea  of  Elizabeth's  sister, 
Jane.  "  Mrs.  Bingley's  is  exactly  herself — size,  shaped  face, 
features,  and  sweetness  ;  there  never  was  a  greater  likeness. 
She  is  dressed  in  a  white  gown  with  green  ornaments,  which 
convinces  me  of  what  I  had  always  supposed,  that  green  was 
a  favourite  colour  with  her." 

When  Charlotte  Bronte  read  Pride  and  Prejudice,  after  the 
publication  of  her  own  wild  and  tempestuous  Jane  Eyre  had 
made  her  famous,  she  called  it  *'  an  accurate,  daguerreotyped 
portrait  of  a  commonplace  face  !  a  carefully  fenced,  highly 
cultivated  garden,  with  neat  borders  and  delicate  flowers  ; 
but  no  glance  of  a  bright,  vivid  physiognomy,  no  open  country, 
no  fresh  air,  no  blue  hill,  no  bonny  beck.  I  should  hardly  like 
to  live  with  her  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  their  elegant  but 
confined  houses."  The  writer  of  Pride  and  Prejudice,  so  this 
sister- author  opined,  had  "  not  so  much  even  as  a  speaking 
acquaintance  with  the  stormy  sisterhood  of  the  passions." 
To  some  extent  this  criticism  is  just.  Jane  Austen  does  not 
concern  herself  with  great  questions,  she  touches  none  of  the 
vast  problems  which  are  of  such  vital  import  to  suffering 
humanity  ;  she  sounds  no  spiritual  depths,  she  rises  to  no 
sublime  heights  of  passion  or  of  rapture.  She  paints  with  the 
minutest  accuracy  the  life  she  saw,  and  she  puts  in  one  fine 
stroke  after  another  with  the  sureness  of  touch  and  feeling  for 
effect  which  distinguishes  the  true  artist.  All  her  characters 
are  drawn  from  five  or  six  well-to-do  country  families  ;  none 
of  them  possess  any  very  striking  qualities,  none  of  them  do 
anything  particularly  shocking  or  particularly  noble  ;  yet  each 
one  stands  out  with  an  individuality  and  likeableness  (or  the 
reverse)  which  is  all  his  own,  and  our  interest  in  the  unexciting, 
brightly  told  story  never  flags.  To  have  accomplished  these 
things  is  surely  to  have  earned  the  name  of  a  great  writer. 
Macaulay  declares  Jane  Austen  to  be  among  those  who,  in 
character-painting,  "  have  approached  nearest  to  the  manner 
of  the  great  master,"  Shakespeare.  "  The  world  of  pathos 
and  passion,"  says  Professor  Raleigh,  "  is  present  in  her  work 
446 


PRIDE    &    PREJUDICE 

by  implication.  .  .  .  The  folly  of  some  of  her  characters 
implies  the  existence  of  wisdom  ;  the  selfishness  and  pettiness 
of  others  involve  the  ideas  of  disinterestedness  and  magnani- 
mity, just  as  a  picture  painted  in  cold  tints  would  lose  its 
meaning  if  there  were  no  blue  and  red  in  the  scheme  of  the 
universe.  To  ask  for  all  colours,  always,  within  the  limits  of 
the  frame,  is  absurd." 

Between  1813  and  1816  Miss  Austen  wrote  her  last  two 
novels,  Emma,  the  most  finished  of  all  her  works,  and  Per- 
suasion, the  most  subdued  and  tender  in  tone.  Northanger 
Abbey  was  bought  back  from  the  Bath  bookseller  (who  had 
no  idea  that  it  was  written  by  the  now  celebrated  authoress 
until  the  transaction  was  completed)  for  the  same  sum  that  he 
had  given  for  it,  and  was  published  a  few  months  after  her 
death.  In  May  1817,  after  a  painful  illness,  her  quiet,  happy, 
uneventful  life  ended.  She  was  buried  in  Winchester 
Cathedral,  and  on  her  tomb  are  inscribed  words  which  tell 
how  she  was  regarded  by  those  who  knew  her  as  a  woman, 
and  not  only  as  an  authoress.  "  The  benevolence  of  her 
heart,  the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  and  the  extraordinary 
endowments  of  her  mind  obtained  the  regard  of  all  who  knew 
her,  and  the  warmest  love  of  her  immediate  connexions." 


447 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST   MINSTREL: 
WAVERLEY 

FOUR  years  after  the  appearance  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 
there  came  from  the  Edinburgh  press  a  volume  which, 
in  its  way,  was  almost  as  significant  of  the  new  spirit 
that  was  working  in  English  poetry  as  that  famous  book  itself. 
This  was  the  first  volume  of  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border,  a  collection  of  Scottish  ballads  edited  by  Walter  Scott. 
We  have  seen  Walter  Scott  before,  when,  as  a  shy  young  law- 
student  of  sixteen,  he  sat  silent  in  Dr.  Fergusson's  drawing- 
room,  overawed  by  the  presence  of  the  great  Burns.  Even 
then  he  had  begun  his  work  of  collecting  the  old  ballads  of  the 
Border,  though  with  no  purpose  of  publication,  but  through 
pure  love  of  the  country-side  and  its  stories.  Every  half- 
holiday  saw  him  setting  out,  with  a  few  friends  whose  tastes 
were  similar  to  his  own,  on  a  long  ramble  through  the  rural 
districts  round  about  Edinburgh.  Many  an  odd  verse  of  a 
ballad  and  many  a  strange  story  he  picked  up  from  the  country 
folk  who  were  always  ready  to  talk  to  the  bright-faced  youth 
who  met  them  with  such  hearty  friendliness.  Sometimes 
these  rambles  grew  into  long  excursions.  We  read  that  on 
one  occasion  the  party  found  themselves  thirty  miles  from 
Edinburgh,  without  a  sixpence  between  them.  *'  We  were 
put  to  our  shifts,"  says  Walter  Scott,  "  but  we  asked  every 
now  and  then  at  a  cottage  door  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  good  wives,  observing  our  worn-out  looks, 
brought  forth  milk  in  place  of  water,  so  that  with  that,  and 
hips  and  haws,  we  were  little  the  worse."  He  himself,  in  spite 
of  his  lameness,  footed  it  as  gallantly  as  any  of  the  little  band. 

448 


^Jlay  of  the  last  minstrel 

When  he  reached  home,  his  father,  a  grave  Scotch  lawyer 
asked  him  how  he  had  managed  to  get  food  during  so  long  an 
excursion  on  his  scanty  store  of  money.  *'  Pretty  much  like 
the  young  ravens,"  the  son  answered ;  "I  only  wished  I  had 
been  as  good  a  player  on  the  flute  as  poor  George  Primrose  in 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  If  I  had  his  art,  I  should  like  nothing 
better  than  to  tramp  like  him  from  cottage  to  cottage  all  over 
the  world."  "  I  doubt,"  said  his  father,  who  entirely  disap- 
proved of  such  tastes  in  a  young  student  of  law,  "  I  greatly 
doubt,  sir,  you  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel  scrape- 
gut  " — which  is  to  say,  a  wandering  fiddler.  Such  was  not 
the  fate  reserved  for  Walter  Scott,  but  these  country  excursions 
went  far  toward  deciding  that  law  should  take  but  a  second 
place  in  his  life-work. 

As  he  grew  older,  and  became  more  his  own  master,  these 
jaunts  lengthened  into  "  raids,"  as  he  called  them,  lasting  for 
several  weeks.  "  During  seven  successive  years,"  writes  his 
son-in-law  and  biographer,  John  Gibson  lyockhart,  "  Scott 
made  a  raid  into  Liddesdale  with  Mr.  Shortreed,  sheriff 
substitute  of  Roxburghshire,  who  knew  the  district  well,  for 
his  guide ;  exploring  every  rivulet  to  its  source,  and  every 
ruined  peel  (castle)  from  foundation  to  battlement.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  inn  or  public-house  of  any  kind  in  the  whole 
valley  ;  the  travellers  passed  from  the  shepherd's  hut  to  the 
minister's  manse,  and  again  from  the  cheerful  hospitality  of 
the  manse  to  the  rough  and  jolly  welcome  of  the  homestead  ; 
gathering,  wherever  they  went,  songs  and  tunes,  and  occasion- 
ally more  tangible  relics  of  antiquity.  ...  To  these  rambles 
Scott  owed  much  of  the  materials  of  his  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border.  .  .  . 

But  how  soon  he  had  any  definite  object  before  him  in  his 
researches,  seems  very  doubtful.  "  He  was  makin'  himsell  a.' 
the  time,"  said  Mr.  Shortreed  ;  "  but  he  didna  ken  maybe 
what  he  was  about  till  years  had  passed  :  at  first  he  thought 
o*  little,  I  dare  say,  but  the  queerness  and  the  fun.  ...  Eh 
me  I  such  an  endless  fund  o'  humour  and  drollery  as  he  then 
had  wi*  him  !    Never  ten  yards  but  we  were  either  laughing 

449 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  1 

or  roaring  and  singing.  Wherever  we  stopped,  how  brawlie 
he  suited  himsel'  to  everybody  !  He  aye  did  as  the  lave  did  ;  \ 
never  made  himsel'  the  great  man,  or  took  ony  airs  in  thai 
company."  - 

When  it  did  occur  to  Scott  to  turn  his  miscellaneous  gather-] 
ings  to  account  he  set  to  work  with  characteristic  energy  to 
make  his  collection  complete.  He  obtained  the  help  of  various; 
friends,  who  became  almost  as  enthusiastic  in  the  matter  as 
he  was  himself.  He  wrote  for  it,  also,  several  original  ballads,! 
including  the  celebrated  Eve  of  St.  John.  The  collection! 
increased  rapidly,  and  finally  filled  three  volumes  instead  of| 
the  one  originally  contemplated.  The  first  and  second  volumes! 
were  published  in  1802,  and  in  a  letter  written  by  Scott  during' 
the  same  year  we  find  the  earliest  mention  of  his  first  important! 
original  work.  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  "  In  the  third! 
volume,**  he  says,  **  I  intend  to  publish  Cadyow  Castle,  a! 
historical  sort  of  a  ballad  upon  the  death  of  the  Regent  Murray! 
and  besides  this,  a  long  poem  of  my  own.  It  will  be  a  kind! 
of  romance  of  Border  chivalry,  in  a  light-horseman  sort  of; 
stanza."  I 

In  the  Introduction  to  the  edition  of  his  poems  published 
in  1830,  Scott  tells  us  how  the  Lay  gradually  took  form,  but! 
he  tells  it  in  much  more  lively  fashion  in  a  letter  written  to 
Miss  Seward,  the  poetess,  in  1805.  "  I  began,"  he  says,  "  and; 
wandered  forward,  like  one  in  a  pleasant  country,  getting  to! 
the  top  of  one  hill  to  see  a  prospect,  and  to  the  bottom  of, 
another  to  enjoy  a  shade  ;  and  what  wonder  if  my  course  has| 
been  devious  and  desultory,  and  many  of  my  excursions! 
altogether  unprofitable  to  the  advance  of  my  journey  ?  The 
Dwarf  Page  is  also  an  excrescence,  and  I  plead  guilty  to  all 
the  censures  concerning  him.  The  truth  is,  he  has  a  history,; 
and  it  is  this  :  The  story  of  Gilpin  Horner  was  told  by  an  oldj 
gentleman  to  I^ady  Dalkeith,  and  she,  much  diverted  with  hisj 
actually  believing  so  grotesque  a  tale,  insisted  that  I  should, 
make  it  into  a  Border  ballad.  I  don't  know  if  ever  you  saw^ 
my  lovely  chief tainess — if  you  have  you  must  be  aware  that! 
it  is  impossible  for  anyone  to  refuse  her  request,  as  she  ha^i 

450  \ 


Sir  Walter  Scott 
C.  R.  Leslie,  R.A. 


45c 


Iplay  of  the  last  minstrel 

more  of  the  angel  in  her  face  and  temper  than  anyone  alive, 
so  that  if  she  had  asked  me  to  write  a  ballad  on  a  broomstick; 
I  must  have  attempted  it.  I  began  a  few  verses  to  be  called 
the  Goblin  Page  ;  and  they  lay  long  by  me,  till  the  applause 
of  some  friends  whose  judgment  I  valued,  induced  me  to 
resume  the  poem  ;  so  on  I  wrote,  knowing  no  more  than  the 
man  in  the  moon  how  I  was  to  end.  At  length  the  story 
appeared  so  uncouth,  that  I  was  fain  to  put  it  into  the  mouth 
of  my  old  Minstrel — lest  the  nature  of  it  should  be  misunder- 
stood, and  I  should  be  suspected  of  setting  up  a  new  school  of 
poetry,  instead  of  a  feeble  attempt  to  imitate  the  old.  In  the 
process  of  the  romance,  the  page,  intended  to  be  a  principal 
person  in  the  work,  contrived  (from  the  baseness  of  his  natural 
propensities)  to  slink  downstairs  into  the  kitchen,  and  now  he 
must  e'en  abide  there." 

Scott's  *  lovely  chieftainess,'  I^ady  Dalkeith,  afterward 
Duchess  of  Buccleuch,  was  the  wife  of  the  head  of  that  clan 
or  family  of  which  Scott  was  proud  to  proclaim  himself  a 
member.  During  the  years  he  spent  at  Ashestiel  (i 804-1812) 
he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  Buccleuch  estates.  Here  grew  up 
the  friendship  with  the  family  which  lasted  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  He  puts  into  the  mouth  of  his  old  harper  the  expression 
of  those  feelings  of  fealty  and  devotion  to  the  *  Duchess  '  of 
the  story  which  he  himself  felt  for  the  Duchess  he  knew  so  well. 

A  year  or  two  before  Scott  began  to  write  his  Lay  he  had 
heard  recited  by  Sir  John  Stoddart  Coleridge's  then  un- 
published poem,  Christahel.  The  metre  of  this  poem  had 
remained  in  his  memory  and  he  adopted  it,  or  something  like 
it,  for  his  own  work.  The  story  of  Gilpin  Horner  was  one 
which  was  current  in  the  district.  One  night  some  men 
returning  to  their  homes  at  Eskdale  Muir,  on  the  Border 
heard  a  voice  calling  "tint,  tint,  tint"  (lost).  They  called, 
and  a  misshapen  child  dwarf  appeared.  It  lived  at  Eskdale 
for  some  time,  then  one  evening  a  voice  was  heard  crying 
*'  Gilpin  Horner."  The  dwarf  answered,  "  That  is  me,  I  must 
away,"  and  disappeared,  at  the  call,  it  was  supposed,  of  the 
devil,  who  thus  reclaimed  his  own. 

45 1 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  like  most  of  Scott's  works,  was 
written  very  rapidly.  When  he  once  got  fairly  started,  he 
tells  us,  he  wrote  at  the  rate  of  a  canto  a  week.  It  soon 
exceeded  the  limits  originally  proposed  for  it,  and  the  idea  of 
including  it  in  the  third  volume  of  the  Minstrelsy  was  given 
up.  Three  years  passed  before  it  was  published  ;  in  the  first 
week  of  January  1805  it  appeared  and  met  with  a  marvellous 
success,  which,  as  I^ockhart  says,  *'  at  once  decided  that 
literature  should  form  the  main  business  of  Scott's  life."  "  It 
would  be  great  affectation,"  he  says  in  the  Introduction  of 
1830,  "  not  to  own  that  the  author  expected  some  success  from 
The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  The  attempt  to  return  to  a 
more,  simple  and  natural  poetry  was  likely  to  be  welcomed,  at 
a  time  when  the  public  had  become  tired  of  heroic  hexameters, 
with  all  the  buckram  and  binding  that  belong  to  them  in 
modern  days.  But  whatever  might  have  been  his  expectations 
the  result  left  them  far  behind  ;  for  among  those  who  smiled 
on  the  adventurous  minstrel  were  numbered  the  great  names 
of  William  Pitt  and  Charles  Fox.  Neither  was  the  extent  of 
the  sale  inferior  to  the  character  of  the  judges  who  received 
the  poem  with  approbation.  Upwards  of  30,000  copies  were 
disposed  of  by  the  trade  ;  and  the  author  had  to  perform  a 
task  difficult  to  human  vanity,  when  called  upon  to  make  the 
necessary  deductions  from  his  own  merits,  in  a  calm  attempt 
to  account  for  its  popularity." 

If  we,  for  our  part,  attempt  to  account  for  its  popularity, 
we  cannot  do  better  than  take  some  of  Scott's  own  words, 
written  at  a  later  date,  concerning  his  work  as  a  whole.  "  I 
am  sensible,"  he  says,  "  that  if  there  be  anything  good  about 
my  poetry  or  prose  either,  it  is  a  hurried  frankness  of  composi- 
tion, which  pleases  soldiers,  sailors,  and  young  people  of  bold 
and  active  dispositions."  It  is  this  *  hurried  frankness '  that 
carries  Scott's  verse  along  like  a  company  of  gallant  soldiers 
marching  with  easy  swinging  stride  through  a  fair  country, 
the  rhythmical  beat  of  their  feet  bringing  vague  suggestions 
of  war  and  perilous  adventure.  It  is  almost  impossible  to 
read  even  the  less  exciting  passages  quite  calmly  and  deliber- 
452 


||P  WAVERLEY 

lately.  There  is  no  poetry  so  easy  to  learn  by  heart,  for  sound 
and  sense  are  so  welded  in  that  pulsing  measure  that  if  we  once 
fairly  get  the  tune  started,  the  words  must  follow. 

The  broad,  simple  outlines  of  Scott's  poetry,  its  entire 
freedom  from  subtlety  or  obscurity,  its  free,  open-air  tone 
and  robust  romanticism  are  among  the  other  qualities  that 
have  made  it  so  widely  popular. 

After  the  publication  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  Scott's 
career  was  simply  a  triumphal  march  to  fame  and  wealth.  In 
1808  Marmion, — ^for  which  the  publishers  had  paid  £1000 
without  seeing  it — was  pubUshed,  and  its  success  even  exceeded 
that  of  the  Lay.  In  1810  came  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  in 
181 1  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick.  In  1812  Scott  removed 
from  Ashestiel  to  Abbotsford,  an  estate  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed,  which,  by  an  enormous  expenditure  of  time,  pains 
and  money,  he  afterward  developed  into  the  magnificent 
country  seat  that  he  hoped  would  be  the  inheritance  of  a  long 
line  of  descendants.  In  December  of  the  same  year  came 
Rokeby,  followed  early  in  1813  by  The  Bridal  of  Triermain. 

Scott's  popularity,  witnessed  by  the  sale  of  his  poems,  now 
began  to  show  some  signs  of  waning.  Byron's  Childe  Harold 
(181 2)  was  occupying  the  attention  of  the  reading  public,  and 
partly  for  this  reason,  partly  because  he  felt  the  need  of  a  new 
method  of  expression,  Scott  turned  his  attention  to  novel- 
writing.  Waverley  ;  or,  His  Sixty  Years  Since,  was  pubUshed 
anonymously  in  February  1814.  Scott's  own  account  of  the 
origin  and  progress  of  this  work  is  the  best  that  can  be  given. 
"  It  was  a  very  old  attempt  of  mine,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
Mr.  Morritt,  *'  to  attempt  to  embody  some  traits  of  those 
characters  and  manners  peculiar  to  Scotland,  the  last  remnants 
of  which  vanished  during  my  own  youth,  so  that  few  or  no 
traces  now  remain.  I  had  written  great  part  of  the  first 
volume,  and  sketched  other  passages,  when  I  mislaid  the  MS., 
and  only  found  it  by  the  merest  accident  as  I  was  rummaging 
the  drawers  of  an  old  cabinet ;  and  I  took  the  fancy  of  finishing 
it,  which  I  did  so  fast  that  the  last  two  volumes  were  written 
in  three  weeks.    I  had  a  great  deal  of  fun  in  the  accompHsh- 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  j 

• 

ment  of  this  task,  though  I  do  not  expect  that  it  will  be  ! 
popular  in  the  south,  as  much  of  the  humour,  if  there  be  any,  ^ 
is  local,  and  some  of  it  even  professional.     You,  however,  who  . 
are  an  adopted  Scotchman,  will  find  some  amusement  in  it.  { 
It  has  made  a  very  strong  impression  here,  and  the  good 
people  of  Edinburgh  are  busied  in  tracing  the  author,  and  in 
finding  out  originals  for  the  portraits  it  contains.     In  the  first  , 
case  they  will  probably  find  it  difficult  to  convict  the  guilty  • 
author,  although  he  is  far  from  escaping  suspicion.     Jeffrey  | 
has  offered  to  make  oath  that  it  is  mine,  and  another  critic  ' 
has  tendered  his  affidavit  ex  contrario  ;  so  that  these  authorities  j 
have    divided   the    Gude    Town.     However,    the    thing    has 
succeeded  very  well,  and  is  thought  highly  of.     I  don't  know  ! 
if  it  has  got   to  London  yet.     I   intend  to   maintain   my 
incognito.'*  \ 

The  date  of  the  early  sketch  referred  to  in  this  letter  is 
1805,  and  the  story  of  Waverley,  as  may  be  gathered  from  its  ; 
sub- title,  deals  with  the  Jacobite  rising  of  1745.     The  book  | 
had  an  instant  and  wonderful  success,  and  inaugurated  a  i 
second  series  of  triumphs  for  Scott.  \ 

It  is  impossible  here  to  do  more  than  name  the  series  of  i 
novels  which  followed  Waverley  with  such  marvellous  rapidity,  i 
In  1815  Guy  Manner ing  was  published,  almost  simultaneously  , 
with  a  long  poem.  Lord  0/  the  Isles.  In  1816  came  The  \ 
Antiquary,  Old  Mortality  and  the  Black  Dwarf;  in  18 17  ; 
Rob  Roy  ;  in  181 8  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  The  Bride  of  \ 
Lammermoor ,  The  Legend  of  Montrose,  Ivanhoe,  The  Monastery,  ^ 
The  Abbot,  Kenilworth,  The  Pirate,  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  \ 
Peveril  of  the  Peak,  Quentin  Durward,  St.  Ronan's  Well,  Red-  j 
gauntlet,  The  Talisman,  and  The  Betrothed  all  came  by 
1825,  which  year  saw  Scott  at  the  height  of  his  prosperity.  In  ' 
1820  a  baronetcy  had  been  bestowed  upon  him.  The  secret  \ 
of  the  authorship  of  The  Waverley  Novels  was  by  this  time  a  , 
secret  no  longer,  though  Scott's  friends  still  joked  with  him  j 
about  the  Great  Unknown.  The  house  he  had  built  at  Abbots-  I 
ford  was  finished,  and  furnished  with  so  many  rare  and  curious 
things  that  it  was  almost  like  a  museum.    Successive  purchases    i 

454  I 


t  WAVERLEY 

of  land  had  made  Scott  the  owner  of  a  large  estate,  and  this 
he  had  planted  and  improved  with  the  utmost  care.  His 
hospitality  was  lavish,  and  his  charities  immense.  He  had 
won  large  sums  of  money  so  easily  that  he  seemed  to  own  a 
Fortunatus'  purse,  which  could  never  fail.  He  had  not 
given  up  the  profession  of  the  law,  and  now  held  offices  which 
brought  him  in  about  £1500  a  year,  independent  of  his  income 
from  literature.  But  notwithstanding  the  great  sums  he  had 
received,  money  difficulties,  which  had  been  pressing  more  or 
less  heavily  upon  him  for  some  years,  brought  him  in  January 
1826  to  disaster.  He  had  associated  himself  with  the  publish- 
ing firm  of  Ballantyne,  and  when  this  firm,  partly  through 
mismanagement,  partly  through  trade  depression,  failed,  he 
found  himself  liable  for  about  £130,000. 

He  met  misfortune  magnificently.  He  refused  to  become 
bankrupt,  and  at  fifty-four  years  of  age  set  to  work  to  achieve 
what  seemed  an  impossibility — the  payment  of  this  huge 
debt.  Amid  domestic  affliction — for  I^ady  Scott  was  lying 
near  to  death, — he  began  his  task.  In  two  months  he  produced 
Woodstock,  one  of  the  finest  of  his  works,  and  this  brought  in 
£8000.  In  April  I^ady  Scott  died  ;  yet  he  worked  on,  un- 
daunted. In  1827  appeared  his  great  Life  0/  Napoleon  and 
the  first  series  of  his  Tales  of  a  Grandfather.  These  enabled 
him  to  pay  his  creditors  a  dividend  of  six  shillings  in  the 
pound.  In  two  years  he  had  earned  £40,000.  He  went  on 
with  unabated  energy,  and  in  1828  produced  his  Fair  Maid  of 
Perth,  and  began  to  prepare,  and  write  prefaces  for,  a  collected 
edition  of  his  works.  In  1829  came  Anne  of  Geier stein.  By 
this  time  his  health  was  giving  way  under  the  strain  of  hard 
and  continuous  work  and  many  sorrows.  Early  in  1830  he 
suffered  from  a  slight  paralytic  seizure,  but  immediately  on 
his  recovery  he  began  a  new  novel,  Count  Robert  of  Paris. 
Apoplectic  attacks  at  the  end  of  1830  and  the  beginning  of 
1 83 1  brought  him  to  a  pitiable  condition  of  health,  but  he 
would  not  give  up  his  work  though  his  brain  power  was  seriously 
affected,  and  the  new  book,  Castle  Dangerous,  which  he  per- 
sisted in  putting  in  hand,  has  little  of  his  old  charm.    Toward 

455 


ENGLISH     LITERATURE  | 

the  end  of  1831  the  Government  offered  him  a  frigate  for  a  ] 
voyage  to  Italy,  and  his  friends,  with  a  last  hope  that  complete  ^ 
rest  and  change  might  even  then  restore  him,  persuaded  \ 
him  to  undertake  the  voyage.  But  his  health  did  not  im-  ! 
prove,  and  he  grew  restless  away  from  his  native  country. 
In  July  1832  he  returned  home  to  Abbotsford,  and  there  on  i 
September  17  he  died  | 


4S6 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

THE  Essays  of  Elia  appeared  between  August  1820  and 
August  1825  in  The  London  Magazine, — a  monthly 
newspaper  to  which,  at  some  time  during  the  five 
years  of  its  existence,  Keats,  Hazlitt,  Carlyle  and  De  Quincey, 
as  well  as  Charles  Lamb,  were  contributors.  I^amb,  in 
1820,  was  forty-five  years  old,  and  the  author  of  various 
published  works.  But  it  was  in  The  Essays  of  Elia  that  he 
found  the  literary  form  best  suited  to  his  unique  powers ;  it 
is  through  them  that  he  has  gained  his  place  among  the  great 
English  prose  writers.  It  is  in  them,  also,  that  he  has  told 
the  story  of  a  life,  poor  and  mean  in  its  outward  circumstances 
but  so  darkened  by  tragedy  and  illumined  by  genius  that  it 
can  never  be  commonplace.  Many  subjects  are  dealt  with  in 
the  essays,  but  there  are  few  of  them  which  are  not  to  some 
extent  autobiographical.  We  will  let  Elia  tell  the  story  of 
Charles  Lamb,  for  no  one  else  can  tell  it  half  so  well. 

"  I  was  born,"  he  says,  "  and  passed  the  first  seven  years  of 
my  life  in  the  Temple.  Its  church,  its  halls,  its  gardens,  its 
fountain,  its  river,  I  had  almost  said, — for  in  those  young 
years  what  was  this  king  of  rivers  but  a  stream  that  watered 
our  pleasant  places  ?  these  are  of  my  oldest  recollections.'* 
Lamb's  father  was  a  confidential  servant  or  clerk  of  Samuel 
Salt,  one  of  the  Benchers  of  the  Temple.  His  son  describes 
him  under  the  name  of  Lovel.  "  I  knew  this  Lovel,"  he  says. 
"  He  was  a  man  of  an  incorrigible  and  losing  honesty.  A  good 
fellow  withal,  and '  would  strike.*  In  the  cause  of  the  oppressed 
he  never  considered  inequalities,  or  calculated  the  number  of 
his  opponents.** 

2  G  457 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

The  home  in  the  Temple  was  a  very  humble  one.     "  Snug 
firesides — the  low-built  roof — parlours  ten  feet  by  ten — frugal 
boards  and  all  the  homehness  of  home — these  were  the  condi- 
tion of  my  birth — the  wholesome  soil  which  I  was  planted  in/*i 
But  the  boy  was  not  without  experience  of  a  home  of  more^ 
magnificent  sort.     His  grandmother  was  housekeeper  at  the 
old  mansion  of  the  Plumer  family,  at  Blakesware  in  Hert- 
fordshire, and,  when  the  owners  were  absent,  Charles  I^amb 
with  his  elder  brother  and  sister  often  paid  her  long  visits.  \ 
All  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  dwelling  he  felt  to  be  his  | 
own.     Many  a  time,  he  tells  us,  he  has  gone  over  the  gallery  j 
of  old  portraits  giving  them  his  own  family  name,  at  which  j 
they  would  **  seem  to  smile,  reaching  forward  from  the  canvas  ^ 
to  recognize  the  new  relationship."  i 

"  Mine  too,  was  thy  noble  Marble  Hall  with  its  Mosaic  \ 
pavements  and  its  Twelve  Caesars — stately  busts  in  marble — a 
ranged  round.  .  .  .  Mine,  too — whose  else  ?  thy  costly  fruit ; 
garden,  with  its  sun-baked  southern  wall ;  the  ampler  pleasure  j 
garden  rising  backwards  from  the  house  in  triple  terraces,  .  .  .  ; 
the  verdant  quarters  back  warder  still ;  and,  stretching  still  1 
beyond  in  old  formahty,  the  firry  wilderness,  the  haunt  of  the 
squirrel,  and  the  day-long  murmuring  wood-pigeon."  j 

The  imaginative  gift  by  means  of  which  the  poor  clerk's  son  ' 
entered  upon  so  rich  a  heritage,  opened  to  him  also  the  regions  , 
of  torment.  **  I  was  dreadfully  alive,"  he  tells  us,  '*  to  ner-  ; 
vous  terrors.  ...  I  never  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow,  I  '- 
suppose,  from  the  fourth  to  the  seventh  or  eighth  year  of  my  ' 
life — so  far  as  memory  serves  in  things  so  long  ago — without  \ 
an  assurance,  which  realized  its  own  prophecy,  of  seeing  some  i 
frightful  spectre."  i 

When  Charles  Lamb  was  seven  years  old,  his  father's  em-  J 
ployer,  Samuel  Salt,  obtained  for  him  a  presentation  to  the  ! 
famous  school  of  Christ's  Hospital.  In  the  same  year  Coleridge  ; 
came  up  from  Ottery  St.  Mary.  The  gentle,  nervous  Httle  ' 
I^ondon  lad,  with  his  stammering  tongue,  and  his  keen,  obser-  j 
vant  eyes  was  attracted  at  once  by  the  wonderful  qualities  of  his  j 
precocious  schoolfellow.     "  Come  back  into  memory,"  cries   ! 

458  : 


^P  THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 
Blia,  "  like  as  thou  wert  in  the  dayspring  of  thy  fancies,  with 
hope  hke  a  fiery  column  before  thee — the  dark  pillar  not  yet 
turned — Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge — I^ogician,  Metaphysician, 
Bard."  The  two  boys,  both  so  different  from  the  others 
round  them,  formed  a  friendship  which  lasted  for  more  than  fifty 
years,  and  was  one  of  the  happiest  influences  in  the  lives  of  each. 
Coleridge  has  told  of  the  old  boyish  days  in  his  Biographia 
Literaria  and  I^amb  in  his  essay  on  Christ's  Hospital  Five-and- 
Thirty  Years  Ago.     He  speaks  here  as  in  the  person  of  Coleridge. 

'  I  remember  ly.  at  school,  and  can  well  recollect  that  he  had 
some  peculiar  advantages  which  I  and  others  of  his  school- 
fellows had  not.  His  friends  lived  in  town,  and  were  near 
.it  hand  ;  and  he  had  the  privilege  of  going  to  see  them,  almost 
as  often  as  he  wished,  through  some  invidious  distinction, 
which  was  denied  to  us.  .  .  .  He  had  his  hot  plate  of  roast 
veal,  or  the  more  tempting  griskin  (exotics  unknown  to  our 
palates),  cooked  in  the  paternal  kitchen  (a  great  thing),  and 
brought  him  daily  by  his  maid  or  aunt  !  I  remember  the  good 
old  relative  (in  whom  love  forbade  pride)  squatting  down 
upon  some  odd  stone  in  a  by-nook  of  the  cloisters,  disclosing 
the  viands  (of  higher  regale  than  those  cates  which  the  ravens 
ministered  to  the  Tishbite)  ;  and  the  contending  passions  of 
ly.  at  the  unfolding.  There  was  love  for  the  bringer ;  shame 
for  the  thing  brought,  and  the  manner  of  its  bringing ;  sym- 
pathy for  those  who  were  too  many  to  share  in  it ;  and,  at  top 
of  all,  hunger  (eldest,  strongest  of  the  passions  !)  predominant, 
breaking  down  the  stony  fences  of  shame,  and  awkwardness, 
and  a  troubling  over-consciousness." 

At  Christ's  Hospital  Lamb  received  a  thorough  classical 
education.  He  was  never  a  good  Greek  scholar,  but  attained 
to  very  considerable  proficiency  in  Latin,  which  he  wrote  with 
great  ease.  His  school-days  were  probably  the  happiest  of 
his  life,  and  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  leave  Christ's 
Hospital  we  can  imagine  how  sorrowfully  he  parted  from  the 
friends  and  the  places  endeared  to  him  by  seven  years  of 
close  association.  Coleridge  was  going  to  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  but  for  Charles  Lamb  no  such  extension  of  the 

459 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

student's  life  was  possible.     He  was,  as  Elia  wrote  afterward 
in  his  essay  on  Oxford  in  the  Vacation,  "  defrauded  in  his 
young  years  of  the  sweet  food  of  academic  institution  "  by  the 
poverty  of  his  family.    His  father  was  growing  old  and  in- 
firm ;  his  elder  brother  John  had  obtained  a  responsible  posi- 
tion in  a  South  Sea  House,  had  left  home  and  did  little  to  help 
his  family.     His  sister  Mary,  then  about  twenty-four  years 
old,  looked  after  the  three  old  people — ^father,  mother,  and  the 
Aunt  Hetty  whose  visits  to  I^amb  in  his  school-days  have  been 
recorded — and  tried,  by  working  with  her  needle,  to  add  some- 
thing to  the  scanty  family  income.     It  was  necessary  that  I 
Charles  also  should  help,  and  soon  after  he    left  school  he  I 
obtained,  as  his  brother  had  done,  a  post  in  the  South  Sea  i 
House.     He  stayed  there  only  a  short  time.     In  1792,  through  | 
the  influence  of  Samuel  Salt,  he  was  promoted  to  the  account-  ; 
ant's  office  of  the  East  India  Company  at  a  salary  of  £70  a 
year.    From  this  time  forward  he  became  the  chief  support  of 
his  family.     His  father,  in  the  same  year,  was  obliged  through 
increasing  age  and  infirmity  to  give  up  the  few  duties  in  the  I 
service  of  Samuel  Salt,  which  he  had  hitherto  retained,  and  1 
retired  on  a  small  annuity.    The  family  removed  from  the 
Temple  to  rooms  in  Little  Queen  Street,  Ivincoln's  Inn  Fields,  i 
There  began  for  Charles  Lamb  the  life  of  monotonous  drudgery  \ 
and  heavy  care  which  was  to  last  for  so  many  years.    It  was  ] 
varied  only  by  occasional  meetings  with  Coleridge,  and  by  ' 
holiday  visits  to  Hertfordshire.     At  Hertfordshire  Lamb  fell  1 
in  love  with  a  *  fair-haired  maid '  of  whom  we  know  little  . 
except  what  he  tells  us  in  two  sonnets  written  between  1792  j 
and  1796,  and  in  his  beautiful  essay,  Dream  Children,  written  j 
many  years  later.     There  he  describes  how  the  two  shadowy  ; 
little  ones  stood  at  his  knee  while  he  told  them  "  how  for 
seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  \ 

persisting  ever,"  he  "  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n  "  ;   and  ' 

how  the  dream  died,  and  the  children  who  for  a  time  had 
seemed     his    own    faded    away,   their    mournful,    receding  j 
features  strangely  impressing  upon  him  the  effects  of  speech,  j 
"  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  ! 
460 


Charles  Lamb 


460 


I  THE    ESSAYS    OF    ELIA 

,  .  We  are  only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait 
upon  the  tedious  shores  of  I^ethe  millions  of  ages  before  we 
have  existence  and  a  name.'* 

The  *'  might  have  been  "  was  never  to  be  for  Charles  lyamb. 
An  obstacle  more  insurmountable  even  than  poverty  and  much 
more  terrible,  stood  between  him  and  thoughts  of  love  or 
marriage.  In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1796  he  wrote  to 
Coleridge  :  *'  My  life  has  been  somewhat  diversified  of  late. 
The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year  and  began  this,  your  very 
humble  servant  spent  very  agreeably  in  a  madhouse  at  Hoxton. 
.  Coleridge,  it  may  convince  you  of  my  regard  for  you 
when  I  tell  you  my  head  ran  on  you  in  my  madness,  as  much 
almost  as  on  another  person,  who  I  am  inclined  to  think  was 
the  more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary  frenzy."     The 

*  other  person  "  was,  doubtless,  Alice  W n  ;  and  so  ended 

the  romance  of  I^amb's  life.  Its  great  tragedy  was  soon  to 
follow.  Insanity,  it  appears,  was  hereditary  in  the  family, 
and  it  attacked  next  the  kind  elder  sister,  the  sensible,  quiet 
patient  and  hardworking  Mary  lyamb.  She  had  been  to 
Charles  almost  as  a  mother,  and  he  loved  and  leant  upon  her 
as  on  one  stronger  and  wiser  than  himself.  We  can  judge  in 
what  agony  of  spirit  he  wrote,  in  September  1796,  the  letter 
to  Coleridge  telling  how  the  blow  had  fallen. 

"  My  Dearest  Friend, 

"  White  or  some  of  my  friends,  or  the  public  papers  by 
this  time,  may  have  informed  you  of  the  terrible  calamities 
that  have  fallen  on  our  family.  My  poor,  dear,  dearest  sister, 
in  a  fit  of  insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  own  mother.  I 
was  at  hand  only  time  enough  to  snatch  the  knife  out  of  her 
grasp.  She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse,  from  whence  I  fear 
she  must  be  moved  to  a  hospital.  God  has  preserved  to  me 
my  senses — I  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  have  my  judg- 
ment, I  believe,  very  sound.  My  poor  father  was  slightly 
wounded,  and  I  am  left  to  take  care  of  him  and  my  aunt. 
Mr.  Norris,  of  the  Bluecoat  School,  has  been  very  kind  to  us, 
and  we  have  no  other  friend ;    but,  thank  God,  I  am  very 

461 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  • 

calm  and  composed,  and  able  to  do  the  best  that  remains  to  do. 
Write  as  religious  a  letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention  of  what 
is  gone  and  done  with.      With  me  the  *  former  things  are 
passed  away,'  and  I  have  something  more  to  do  than  feel.        | 
*'  God  Almighty  have  us  well  in  His  keeping.  | 

"  C.  Umb."    I 

The  young  man  of  twenty-two,  himself  conscious  of  an 
infirmity  which  might  at  any  time  reduce  him  to  the  condition 
of  his  unfortunate  sister,  acted  at  this  terrible  crisis  with  the 
greatest  calmness  and  judgment.    The  care   of  the   whole 
family  fell  upon  him  ;  and  he  took  up  the  burden  quietly  and 
bravely.    Mary,  he  resolved,  should  have  everything  that  he  ! 
could  give  her.     "  We  have.  Daddy  and  I,  for  our  two  selves  i 
and  an  old  maid-servant  to  look  after  him  when  I  am  out,  J 
which  will  be  necessary,  £170  or  £180  rather  a  year,  out  of ; ! 
which  we  can  spare  £50  or  £60  for  Mary  while  she  stays  at 
Islington,  where  she  must  and  shall  stay  during  her  father*s 
life,  for  his  and  her  comfort.  ...    If  my  father,  an  old  servant-; 
maid,  and  I  can't  live,  and  live  comfortably,  on  £130  or  £140^ 
a  year,  we  ought  to  burn  by  slow  fires  ;   and  I  almost  would,j 
that  Mary  might  not  go  into  an  hospital." 

It  was  not  long,  however,  that  this  state  of  things  continued. 
A  few  months  passed  and  the  poor  old  father  was  dead,  anc 
Aunt  Hetty  soon  followed  him.     Charles  was  free  now  t< 
devote  himself  to  his  sister,  and  he  did  it  with  entire  singleness 
of  heart.     She  had  by  this  time  recovered  from  her  attack, 
and  her  brother  at  once  set  about  making  arrangements  for 
her  to  be  confided  to  his  care.     Upon  certain  conditions  and 
undertakings  this  was  done  ;   and  the  brother  and  sister  went 
home  together  to  begin  the  life  of  mutual  love  and  watchfulness 
which  lasted  for  thirty-five  years.     Mary  I^amb's  attacks  of 
insanity  recurred  more  and  more  frequently  as  the  years  went 
on,  but  fortunately  she  always  felt  warning  symptoms  that] 
told  her  when  the  time  had  come  for  a  return  to  the  asylum  at| 
Hoxton.    A  friend  has  related  how  he  once  met  the  two? 
walking  hand-in-hand  on  this  sad  errand,  the  faithful  brother.^ 

46a  I 


P|        THE    ESSAYS    OF    ELIA 

leading  the  weeping  but  willing  sister  to  her  temporary 
imprisonment. 

On  this  great  tragedy  of  Charles  lyamb's  life  "  Elia  "  is 
silent.  Only  indirectly  in  the  sad  notes  that  are  struck  even 
in  his  tenderest  and  most  delightfully  humorous  passages 
can  some  echo  of  it  be  heard.  But  of  the  sister,  so  loved  and 
so  pitied,  and  of  the  life  the  two  led  together,  the  essays  tell 
us  much.  Mary  appears  as  Klia's  cousin,  Bridget.  "  Bridget 
Elia,"  says  one  of  the  essays,  "  has  been  my  housekeeper  for 
many  a  long  year.  I  have  obligations  to  Bridget,  extending 
beyond  the  period  of  memory.  We  house  together,  old 
bachelor  and  maid,  in  a  sort  of  double  singleness  ;  with  such 
tolerable  comfort,  upon  the  whole,  that  I,  for  one,  find  in  my- 
self no  sort  of  disposition  to  go  out  upon  the  mountains,  with  the 
rash  king's  offspring,  to  bewail  my  ceUbacy.  .  .  .  Her  educa- 
tion in  youth  was  not  much  attended  to ;  and  she  happily 
missed  all  that  train  of  female  garniture  which  passeth  by 
the  name  of  accomplishments.  She  was  tumbled  early,  by 
accident  or  design,  into  a  spacious  closet  of  good  old  English 
reading,  without  much  selection  or  prohibition,  and  browsed 
at  will  upon  that  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I 
twenty  girls,  they  should  be  brought  up  exactly  in  this  fashion 
I  know  not  whether  their  chance  in  wedlock  might  not  be 
diminished  by  it,  but  I  can  answer  for  it  that  it  makes  (if 
the  worst  come  to  the  worst)  most  incomparable  old  maids." 

The  "  spacious  closet  of  good  old  English  reading  "  was 
probably  the  library  of  Samuel  Salt,  and  here  I^amb  himself 
had  "  browsed  at  will "  during  his  childhood.  Here  he  had 
learnt  to  know  and  love  those  old  Elizabethan  writers  whose 
works  had  gone  so  completely  out  of  fashion  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  and  whom  he  re-introduced  to  the  English 
reading  public  by  means  of  his  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic 
Poets  contemporary  with  Shakespeare  (1808). 

The  brother  and  sister  made  various  efforts  to  increase  their 
very  scanty  income  by  means  of  literary  work.  For  about 
three  years  I^amb  contributed  facetious  paragraphs  to  the 
morning  papers,  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a  joke.     "  O  those 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

headaches  at  dawn  of  day,  when  at  five,  or  half -past  five  in  t 
summer,  and  not  much  later  in  the  dark  seasons,  we  were  com- 
pelled to  rise,  having  been  perhaps  not  above  four  hours  in 
bed — for  we  were  no  go-to-beds  with  the  lamb,  though  we 
anticipated  the  lark  ofttimes  in  her  rising.  .  .  .  No  Egyptian 
taskmaster  ever  devised  a  slavery  like  to  that,  our  slavery.  .  .  . 
Half  a  dozen  jests  in  a  day  (bating  Sundays  too),  why  it  seems 
nothing  !  We  make  twice  the  number  every  day  in  our  Hves 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  claim  no  Sabbatical  exemptions. 
But  then  they  come  into  our  head.  But  when  the  head  has  to 
go  out  to  them — when  the  mountain  must  go  to  Mahomet — 
Reader,  try  it  for  once,  only  for  one  short  twelvemonth.*' 

I^amb  published  also  some  poems  (1796)  and  a  story,  Rosa- 
mund Gray  (1798),  neither  of  which  brought  him  any  sub- 
stantial money  return.  In  1802  appeared  his  poetic  drama 
John  Woodvil,  which  was  very  harshly  handled  by  The  Edin- 
burgh Review  ;  in  1805  he  wrote  a  farce  Mr.  H.,  which  he  himself 
joined  in  hissing  off  the  stage.  His  first  success  was  gained 
with  the  Tales  from  Shakespeare,  1807,  the  joint  work  of  him- 
self and  his  sister  ;  his  second  with  the  Specimens  of  1808.  In 
1820  came  his  crowning  triumph  with  the  first  of  the  Essays  of 
Elia.  All  this  work  was  done  in  the  scanty  leisure  that  his 
duties  at  the  Bast  India  House  allowed  him ;  and  even  these 
hours  were  not  entirely  at  his  own  disposal.  They  were  taken 
up,  he  complains,  by  intrusive  acquaintances.  '*  I  am  never 
C.  Iv.  but  always  C.  Iv.  and  Co.  He  who  thought  it  not  good 
for  man  to  be  alone,  preserve  me  from  the  more  prodigious 
monstrosity  of  never  being  by  myself." 

For  the  annoyance  caused  by  this  too  constant  stream  of 
visitors  I^amb  was  himself  very  largely  to  blame.  He  was 
naturally  of  a  sociable  and  convivial  temperament,  and  his 
gentle  nature  found  it  difiicult  to  snub  or  repulse  even  the  most 
tiresome  acquaintance.  The  monotony  of  his  life,  the  constant 
strain  involved  in  his  watchful  care  of  his  sister,  the  agony  and 
loneliness  that  attended  her  frequent  absences  at  the  asylum — 
all  drove  him  to  find  relief  and  distraction  in  the  means  nearest 
at  hand.  He  had  many  friends  whom  he  truly  loved  and 
464 


IP  THE    ESSAYS    OF    ELIA 

honoured.  His  friendship  with  Coleridge  remained  unbroken  ; 
Wordsworth,  Southey,  Hazlitt  and  I^eigh  Hunt,  were  among 
others  who  were  often  to  be  found  at  his  poor  lodgings  on 
those  famous  *  Wednesday  evenings '  when  the  I^ambs  kept 
open  house.  But  there  came  also  a  crowd  of  less  worthy 
associates  in  whose  company  Charles  sometimes  fell  from  that 
better  self  that  we  all  know  and  love.  The  evenings  ended, 
as  his  patient  sister  often  had  to  confess,  in  Charles  being 
"  very  smoky  and  drinky."  The  temptation  to  take  more 
wine  than  was  good  for  him  was  a  very  strong  one,  for  wine 
unloosed  his  stammering  tongue  from  its  bonds  and  made  him 
able  to  talk  freely,  eloquently,  gloriously.  But  all  his  lapses 
were  followed  by  deep  penitence,  and  Mary,  the  kind  mother- 
sister,  never  lost  patience  or  hope.  As  Charles  watched  over 
her,  so  she  watched  over  him,  comforted  and  encouraged  him, 
calmed  his  excitable,  sensitive  nature  by  her  quiet  good  sense, 
and  kept  him,  as  far  as  was  possible,  true  to  the  inspiration 
of  his  genius. 

As  the  years  went  on  the  circumstances  of  the  brother  and 
sister  improved.  By  1823  I^amb's  salary  had  risen  to  about 
£700  a  year,  and  his  gains  from  literature  were  also  consider- 
able. Though  generous  in  the  extreme,  neither  Charles  nor 
his  sister  was  reckless.  Even  in  the  days  of  their  greatest 
poverty  they  had  kept  out  of  debt.  Now  they  began  to  enjoy 
some  of  the  pleasures  that  come  with  easy  circumstances.  In 
August  1823  they  took  a  house  at  IsUngton  which,  although 
it  was  then  a  country  district,  was  yet  near  enough  to  Charles's 
beloved  I^ondon  to  enable  him  often  to  visit  the  scenes  so  dear 
to  his  heart.  "  Enchanting  I^ondon,"  he  had  written  years 
before  to  his  friend  Manning,  "  whose  dirtiest,  drab-frequented 
alley,  and  her  lowest  bowing  tradesman,  I  would  not  exchange 
for  Skiddaw,  Helvellyn  ...  All  the  streets  and  pavements 
are  pure  gold,  I  warrant  you.  At  least,  I  know  an  alchemy 
that  turns  her  mud  into  that  metal — a  mind  that  loves  to  be  at 
home  in  crowds." 

In  April  1825  came  I^amb's  emancipation  from  the  drudgery 
of  the  East  India  Office.    The  directors  marked  their  apprecia- 

465 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

tion  of  his  long  and  faithful  service,  as  well  as  of  his  literary 
reputation,  by  offering  him  an  immediate  retiring  allowance  | 
of  two-thirds  of  his  salary — "  a  magnificent  offer,"  says  lyamb.  | 
"  I  do  not  know  what  I  answered  between  surprise  and  grati- ) 
tude,  but  it  was  understood  that  I  accepted  their  proposal,  | 
and  I  was  told  that  I  was  free  from  that  hour  to  leave  their  ■ 
service.  I  stammered  out  a  bow,  and  at  just  ten  minutes  : 
after  eight  I  went  home — for  ever.  .  .  .  For  the  first  day  or  '■ 
two  I  felt  stunned,  overwhelmed.  I  could  only  apprehend  my  j 
felicity  ;  I  was  too  confused  to  taste  it  sincerely.  I  wandered  ] 
about  thinking  I  was  happy,  and  knowing  I  was  not.  I  was  in  ' 
the  condition  of  a  prisoner  in  the  old  Bastile,  suddenly  let  ■ 
loose  after  a  forty  years'  confinement.  .  .  .  Now  that  those  ■ 
giddy  raptures  have  subsided,  I  have  a  quiet  home-feeling  of  = 
the  blessedness  of  my  condition.  I  am  in  no  hurry.  Having  i 
all  holidays,  I  am  as  though  I  had  none.  ..."  j 

The  years  that  followed  were  calm  though  clouded,  and  \ 
there  is  little  to  tell  about  them  except  with  regard  to  changes  ^ 
of  residence,  loss  of  friends,  and  the  steady  increase  of  Mary  j 
I^amb's  infirmity.  "  Mary  is  ill  again,"  he  wrote  to  Words-  | 
worth  in  1833,  from  Bay  Cottage,  Edmonton,  where  he  was  then  | 
living.  "Her  illnesses  encroach  yearly.  The  last  was  threes 
months,  followed  by  two  of  depression  most  dreadful.  I  look  I 
back  upon  her  ear  Her  attacks  with  longing.  Nice  little  dura-  S 
tions  of  six  weeks  or  so,  followed  by  complete  restoration,  'j 
shocking  as  they  were  to  me  then.  In  short,  half  her  life  is  i 
dead  to  me,  and  the  other  half  is  made  anxious  with  fears,  and  \ 
lookings  forward  to  the  next  shock."  ] 

A  few  fugitive  papers  are  all  that  remain  to  mark  this  last  • 
ten  years  of  I^amb's  life.  His  period  of  literary  activity  was  , 
over.  He  occupied  his  time  in  reading,  in  walking,  and  in  \ 
visiting  such  old  friends  as  remained  to  him.  His  frail  form  I 
had  grown  thinner  than  ever,  his  "  almost  immaterial  legs,"  as  J 
Hood  had  called  them,  had  dwindled  to  even  greater  attenua-  1 
tion.  But  the  noble  head  with  its  dark  hair  and  broad  open  i 
brow  still  redeemed  his  appearance  from  insignificance,  and  his  \ 
brown  eyes  were  as  soft  and  bright  as  they  had  been  in  his  i 

466  i 


THE    ESSAYS    OF    ELIA 

boyhood's  days.  The  smile,  sad,  tender  and  sweet,  of  which 
his  friends  have  loved  to  tell  us,  still  came  and  went,  and  the 
gentle  air  of  patient  endurance  which  the  sorrows  of  his  life  had 
brought  to  him  was  still  sometimes  lightened  by  the  flash  of 
merry  humour  or  kindly  raillery.  His  heart  was  constant  to 
its  old  friendships.  The  death  of  Coleridge  in  July  1834  g^ve 
him  a  blow  from  which  he  could  not  recover.  For  many  years 
the  genius  of  Coleridge  had  been  under  a  cloud.  The  fatal 
instability  of  his  character  joined  to  the  long-indulged  habit  of 
opium  taking,  had  wrecked  his  marvellous  powers.  But  to 
Charles  Lamb  he  was  still  the  Coleridge  of  The  Ancient  Manner 
and  of  Christahel.  "  His  great  and  dear  spirit  still  haunts  me. 
I  cannot  think  a  thought,  I  cannot  make  a  criticism  on  men  or 
books  without  an  ineffectual  turning  and  reference  to  him.  He 
was  the  proof  and  touchstone  of  all  my  cogitations." 

Before  five  months  had  passed  Lamb  had  gone  to  join  his 
friend.  On  a  cold  December  afternoon,  as  he  was  taking  his 
lonely  walk  along  the  London  road,  thinking  sadly  of  Coleridge 
dead,  and  Mary  away  in  the  asylum,  he  slipped  and  fell, 
slightly  wounding  his  face  Erysipelas  set  in,  and  on 
December  29,  1834,  ^^  ^^^^. 


467 


The  Victorian  Age 

THE  Victorian  age  is  a  great  age  in  English  literature. 
It  saw  the  novel  developed  into  a  work  of  finished 
literary  art ;  it  gave  us  at  least  two  great  poets ;  it 
extended  the  miscellaneous  writings  which  had  been  begun 
by  the  essayists  of  the  previous  age,  until  this  became  a  really 
valuable  department.  Toward  the  end  of  the  century  there 
is  a  falling  off  in  the  quality  and  quantity  of  notable  works, 
and  it  becomes  evident  that  a  new  era  in  literary  history  is  at 
hand^^.'^rhe  beginnings  of  this  it  has  not  been  here  attempted 
tcxCrace.  We  close  our  story  with  the  close  of  the  Victorian 
age. 


469 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
VANITY    FAIR 

WHEN  Queen  Victoria  came  to  the  throne  a  new  era 
in  i^rose  fiction  was  opening.  Thackeray,  a  young 
man  of  twenty-six,  was  writing  his  first  story, 
The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  ;  Dickens,  a  few  months  younger, 
was  aheady  known  as  the  author  of  Pickwick,  which  was 
running  its  triumphal  course  in  a  series  of  monthly  numbers ; 
Charlotte  Bronte,  just  turned  twenty-one,  was  toiling  wearily 
as  a  governess,  not  without  thoughts  of  authorship  ;  George 
Eliot,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  was  looking  after  her  father's  house 
at  Arbury  in  Warwickshire ;  George  Meredith  was  a  boy  of 
nme  years.  These  are  the  giants  among  the  great  company  of 
Victorian  noveUsts.  Within  the  space  of  forty  years  after  the 
Queen's  accession  were  produced  all  those  masterpieces  of  prose 
fiction  that  have  made  the  age  famous :  and  the  same  period 
witnessed  the  publication  of  the  finest  works  of  Tennyson  and 
Browning,  of  Macaulay's  History,  of  the  Cromwell  and  Frederick 
the  Great  of  Carlyle,  and  the  Modern  PaifUers  of  Ruskin. 

WilHam  Makepeace  Thackeray,  the  eldest  of  the  band  of 
novehsts,  was  born  in  1811.  He  belonged  to  a  family  that  for 
several  generations  had  been  connected  with  Indian  trade. 
He  was  born  in  Calcutta,  and  when  he  was  six  years  old  was 
sent  home  to  England.  At  eleven  he  entered  the  Charterhouse 
School,  which  is  the  *  Slaughterhouse  '  and  '  Grey  Friars ' 
of  several  of  his  novels.  Here  he  did  not  greatly  distinguish 
himself.  I^ike  the  hero  of  Pendennis  he  was  *'  averse  to  the 
Greek  Grammar  from  his  earliest  youth,  and  would  have  none 
of  it  except  at  the  last  extremity."  "  He  never  read  to 
improve  himself  out  of  school  hours,  but,  on  the  contrary, 

471 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

devoured  all  the  novels,  plays  and  poetry  on  which  he  could 
lay  his  hands.  ...  He  had  a  natural  taste  for  reading  every 
possible  kind  of  book  which  did  not  fall  into  his  school-course. 
It  was  only  when  they  forced  his  head  into  the  waters  of 
knowledge  that  he  refused  to  drink.'* 

This  natural  taste  for  reading  remained  with  Thackeray  all 
his  life  long.  When  he  went  up  to  Cambridge  in  1829  he 
was  brought  into  sympathy  with  the  famous  little  group  of 
students  to  which  Tennyson  and  Edward  Fitzgerald  belonged 
and  with  several  members  of  this  group  he  formed  life-long 
friendships.  When  he  left  college  in  1830  he  spent  some  time 
abroad,  chiefly  at  Paris  and  Weimar.  At  Paris  he  studied 
drawing,  with  the  idea  of  becoming  an  artist.  From  his  child- 
hood he  had  used  his  pencil  with  ease  and  skill,  and  his  carica- 
tures had  been  the  delight  of  his  schoolfellows  at  the  Charter- 
house. The  examples  of  his  drawings  that  remain  to  us  show 
that  he  had  a  rare  talent  for  giving  life  and  animation  to  the 
figures  in  his  sketches,  that  he  could  catch  an  expression  and 
illustrate  an  incident  with  great  aptness.  But  he  never  learnt 
to  draw  correctly — ^perhaps  because  he  never  really  worked 
hard  enough.  It  is  strange  that  he  should  have  been  so 
entirely  mistaken  at  this  period  of  his  life  as  to  the  true  nature 
of  his  talents. 

In  1832  he  came  into  possession  of  the  considerable  fortune 
left  to  him  by  his  father,  who  had  died  in  1816.  This  he  soon 
contrived  to  get  rid  of.  He  had  formed  expensive  habits,  he 
was  generous  to  an  extreme  degree,  and  neither  at  this  time 
nor  at  any  later  period  of  his  life,  possessed  what  may  be  called 
the  financial  faculty.  He  lost  large  sums  in  an  attempt  to 
start  a  daily  newspaper,  and  by  1833  it  became  necessary  for 
him  to  set  to  work  in  earnest  to  gain  a  living.  Still  with  the 
idea  of  becoming  an  artist,  he  took  up  again  his  studies  in 
Paris.  In  1836  when  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  the 
original  artist  the  publishers  of  Pickwick  were  in  immediate 
need  of  an  illustrator  for  the  remaining  numbers  of  the  work, 
Thackeray  was  among  the  applicants  for  the  vacant  post.  He 
submitted  drawings,  which,  as  he  said  humorously  in  after 
472 


I 


W.   M.  Thackeray 
From  a  Photograph 


472 


VANITY    FAIR 

life,  "  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  Mr.  Dickens  did  uot 
consider  suitable  for  his  purpose.'*  The  stress  of  his  necessitous 
circumstances  drove  him  at  length  to  literature.  He  became 
Paris  correspondent  to  a  paper  called  The  Constitutional,  and 
so  gradually  drifted  into  journahstic  work.  In  1836  he 
married,  but  in  less  than  four  years  his  wife  became  lost  to 
him  through  the  most  terrible  of  misfortunes.  An  illness 
caused  by  a  lesion  of  the  brain  so  far  destroyed  her  mental 
powers,  that  it  became  at  last  evident,  even  to  her  husband, 
that  there  was  no  hope  of  recovery,  and  that  separation  must 
take  place.  Thackeray  was  left  alone,  save  for  his  three  baby 
girls.  His  home  was  full  of  sad  memories,  and  it  was  at  this 
time  that  he  formed  the  habit  of  living  largely  at  his  clubs,  a 
habit  which  remained  with  him  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

Through  all  his  misfortunes  he  kept  a  brave  face,  and  was 
even  considered  by  some  of  his  friends  to  show  an  unbecoming 
callousness.  He  worked  hard  at  journalism  and  wrote  for 
Frase/s  Magazine  the  now  famous  Yellowplush  Papers,  In 
1837  and  1838  his  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  appeared  in 
monthly  instalments,  but  it  was  coldly  received  by  the  public. 
About  1841  he  first  became  connected  with  Punch,  for  which 
he  wrote  many  delightful  papers  and  poems.  The  Snob 
Papers,  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands,  The  Ballads  0/  Policeman  X, 
are  among  his  contributions.  In  1844-46  came  the  tale, 
perfect  in  its  kind,  of  Barry  Lyndon,  and  in  1845-46  Notes  of 
a  Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo, 

But  in  all  these  efforts  Thackeray  failed  somehow  to  hit  the 
pubUc  taste.  He  was  known  to  his  brother  journalists  and  to 
literary  men  in  general,  and  was  respected  as  a  man  of  brilliant 
and  versatile  talents.  But  the  great  British  public  that  was, 
throughout  these  years,  acclaiming  each  novel  of  Dickens  as 
it  issued  from  the  press  with  the  loudest  of  praises,  and  buying 
thousands  of  copies,  knew  Uttle  of  Thackeray.  This  was,  in 
part,  his  own  fault.  He  was  constitutionally  indolent,  and 
the  sustained  effort  necessary  for  the  production  of  a  really 
long  and  serious  work  was  very  distasteful  to  him.  He  pre- 
ferred the  short  papers  and  ballads  that  gave  him  little  trouble, 

2H  473 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

but  which  gave  him  also  only  a  passing  reputation,  and  a 
return  in  money  sufficient  only  to  the  needs  of  the  day.  He 
scattered  the  treasures  of  his  imagination  and  his  wit  with  a 
lavish  hand  in  fugitive  papers  contributed  to  various  magazines, 
in  impromptu  verses  written  for  his  friends,  in  brilliant  talk 
at  his  club.  Anthony  TroUope  tells  us  that  when  he  began 
to  write  a  life  of  Thackeray  he  asked  a  number  of  those  who 
had  known  the  great  writer  if  they  could  give  him  any  par- 
ticulars concerning  his  career  at  this  period.  From  all  he 
received  the  same  type  of  answer,  "  If  I  could  only  tell  you  the 
impromptu  lines  that  fell  from  him  !  "  "  If  I  had  only  kept 
the  drawings  from  his  pen,  which  used  to  be  chucked  about 
as  though  they  were  worth  nothing  !  "  "  If  I  could  only 
remember  the  drolleries  !  "  In  general  society  Thackeray 
did  not  shine,  but  with  a  few  intimate  friends  he  was  the 
most  delightful  of  companions. 

But  underneath  all  this  outward  glitter  there  was,  in 
Thackeray's  nature,  a  deep  vein  of  melancholy.  The  buoyant 
hopefulness  of  Charles  Dickens  was  as  foreign  to  him  as  was 
the  indomitable  perseverance  which  was  carrying  his  friend 
and  rival  so  far  ahead  in  the  race  for  fame.  lyife  seemed  to 
him  to  be  full  of  hardship  and  of  pain ;  and  since  whining  over 
these  did  not  become  a  man,  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  cover 
up  one's  wounds  with  a  jest,  and  turn  for  consolation  to  those 
passing  joys  that  were  all  the  world  could  offer.  It  is  this 
attitude  toward  life  that  has  sometimes  caused  Thackeray  to 
be  regarded  as  a  cynic,  but  no  cynic  ever  had  a  heart  as  large 
and  tender  as  was  his.  Only  it  seemed  to  him  useless  to 
attempt  to  represent  things  as  better  than  they  really  were. 
Much  of  the  literature  of  the  day  he  thought  poor  and  futile 
because  the  writers  had  painted  men  as  it  was  pleasant  to 
imagine  them  to  be  rather  than  as  they  were.  The  heroes  of 
fiction,  even  of  Dickens's  fiction,  he  considered  as  mere  con- 
cessions to  popular  taste.  **  Since  the  author  of  Tom  Jones 
was  buried,"  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  later  books,  "  no  writer  of 
fiction  among  us  has  been  permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost 
power  a  MAN.    We  must  drape  him,  and  give  him  a  certain 

474 


VANITY    FAIR 

conventional  simper."  This  Thackeray  resolved  that  he  him- 
self would  not  do.  "  I  can*t  help  telhng  the  truth,"  he  says, 
"  as  I  view  it,  and  describing  what  I  see.  To  describe  it 
otherwise  than  it  seems  to  me  would  be  falsehood  in  that 
calling  in  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  place  me  ;  treason 
to  that  conscience  which  says  that  men  are  weak  ;  that  truth 
must  be  told  ;  that  faults  must  be  owned  ;  that  pardon  must 
be  prayed  for  ;  and  that  I^ove  reigns  supreme  over  all." 

It  was  in  this  spirit  that  Thackeray  early  in  1846  began  to 
write  the  work  that  was  to  make  him  famous.  During  part 
of  1846,  the  whole  of  1847  and  the  first  half  of  1848  novel 
readers  in  England  had  two  great  treats  to  look  forward  to  in 
each  month.  There  was  the  instalment  of  Donibey  and  Son,  in 
the  green  wrapper  then  so  familiar  to  readers  of  Dickens's  works, 
and  there  was  the  new  novel.  Vanity  Fair,  which,  with  the  name 
of  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  on  its  canary-coloured  cover, 
was  making  the  name  of  Becky  Sharp  a  household  word.  It 
was  to  Becky  Sharp  that  the  great  popularity  of  the  book  was 
mainly  due.  Thackeray  called  it  "  a  novel  without  a  hero," 
and  it  is  certain  that  the  three  characters  who  might  have 
aspired  to  fill  the  hero's  place,  George  Osborne,  Major  Dobbin, 
and  Rawdon  Crawley,  are  completely  overshadowed  by  this 
amazing  heroine.  She  is  a  heroine  of  an  entirely  new  type, 
neither  beautiful  nor  good  nor  clever,  except  with  that  kind 
of  cleverness  that  tends  to  worldly  advancement.  Thackeray 
shows  us  exactly  how  little  she  is,  and  makes  us  realize  with 
how  small  a  capital  she  starts  out  to  make  her  fortune.  The 
way  in  which  she  does  it  has  all  the  excitement  that  attaches 
to  the  achievement  of  the  apparently  impossible.  AmeHa,  the 
rival  heroine,  has  generally  been  described  by  critics  as  a 
model  of  insipidity,  but  this  is  scarcely  fair.  By  the  side  of 
Becky  she  seems  commonplace,  but  she  is  in  reality  a  sweet 
and  natural  girl,  such  a  one,  Mr.  Trollope  says,  as  any  father 
might  wish  his  daughter  to  be. 

The  first  numbers  of  Vanity  Fair  attracted  public  attention, 
and  as  the  story  went  on  its  fame  gathered.  It  was  the  first 
of  all  Thackeray's  works  which  he  had  signed  with  his  own 

475 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

name.  Hitherto  he  had  been  Mr.  C.  James  Yellowplush,  or 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  or  Fitzboodle  or  Ikey  Solomon. 
Now  the  world  began  to  know  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 
He  was  sought  after  by  fashionable  society,  and  extolled  in 
the  newspapers.  Strangers,  when  they  met  at  some  great 
dinner-party  or  other  social  function  a  tall,  rather  portly  man 
of  noble  presence,  with  a  fine,  open  forehead,  flowing  hair 
that  was  rapidly  turning  grey,  and  a  broken  nose,  recognized 
him  at  once  as  the  new  literary  lion.  The  broken  nose  was  a 
memento  of  an  occasion,  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  Charter- 
house, when  two  small  boys  of  eleven,  William  Makepeace 
Thackeray  and  George  Stovin  Venables  settled  their  little 
differences  after  the  manner  approved  of  boys,  before  a  large 
and  delighted  assembly  of  their  schoolfellows.  But  the  injury 
he  there  received  rather  added  to  than  took  away  from  the 
distinction  of  Thackeray^s  appearance  in  his  later  years.  It 
certainly  did  not  prevent  his  becoming  a  hero  to  many  of  those 
who  read  his  books,  and  the  worship  tendered  by  these  admirers 
sometimes,  we  are  told,  caused  him  serious  embarrassment. 
Charlotte  Bronte  in  her  remote  Yorkshire  home  read  Vanity 
Fair  and  appreciated  it  after  her  intense  and  serious  fashion. 
Her  own  book,  Jane  Eyre,  had  been  published  in  October  1847, 
and  in  the  second  edition,  1848,  she  inserted  a  dedication  to 
Thackeray.  She  looked  upon  him,  she  said,  "  as  the  social 
regenerator  of  his  day — as  the  very  master  of  that  working 
corps  who  would  restore  to  rectitude  the  warped  state  of 
things."  "  His  wit  is  bright,"  she  continued,  "  his  humour 
attractive,  but  both  bear  the  same  relation  to  his  serious 
genius,  that  the  mere  lambent  sheet-lightning,  playing  under 
the  edge  of  the  summer  cloud,  does  to  the  electric  death-spark 
hid  in  its  womb." 

The  success  of  Vanity  Fair  gave  to  Thackeray  just  the 
stimulus  he  required.  His  lack  of  self-confidence  had  pre- 
vented him  from  working  freely  and  easily,  but  now  he  set  to 
work  in  a  more  buoyant  spirit.  His  next  novel,  Pendennis 
(1848-50),  which  is  to  some  extent  autobiographical,  shows 
this  clearly,  especially  in  its  opening  chapters.  In  1852  came 
47<^ 


VANITY    FAIR 

Esmond,  usually  considered  to  be  his  masterpiece,  and  in  1854 
The  Newcomes,  memorable  for  that  character  whom  every 
reader  of  Thackeray  loves,  dear  old  Colonel  Thomas  Newcome. 
This  was  the  happiest  period  of  Thackeray's  life.  His 
daughters  had  grown  old  enough  to  be  his  companions,  and 
he  loved  them  tenderly  and  delighted  in  their  society.  Home 
became  something  like  home  once  more,  though  he  still 
continued  to  frequent  the  clubs  to  which  he  had  grown  accus- 
tomed, and  of  which  he  was  such  an  honoured  member.  The 
consciousness  that  he  could  make  an  adequate  provision  for 
his  daughters  lightened  the  burden  of  care  which  in  the  old 
hand-to-mouth  days  had  lain  so  heavily  upon  him.  Thackeray 
never  grew  rich.  He  was  too  careless  of  money  and  too 
lavishly  generous  for  that.  But  he  reached  a  position  which 
raised  him  above  the  constant  fret  that  comes  from  means 
insufficient  for  daily  needs.  He  never  became  industrious. 
The  printer  was  sometimes  waiting  for  an  instalment  of  his 
book  when  that  instalment  was  scarcely  begun.  But  until 
ill-health  was  added  to  constitutional  indolence  he  managed 
to  keep  abreast  of  his  work  without  too  obvious  a  strain.  In 
1 85 1  he  made  his  first  appearance  as  a  lecturer,  and  delivered 
a  course  of  lectures  upon  The  English  Humorists  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,  which  had  an  immense  success.  Other  courses, 
given  at  home  and  in  America,  followed,  and  brought  in  large 
sums  of  money.  In  1857  ^^  began  The  Virginians,  a  continua- 
tion of  Esmond,  whose  monthly  numbers  ran  until  October 
1859.  I^  "the  following  year  he  became  editor  of  The  Cornhill 
Magazine.  This,  from  the  financial  point  of  view,  was 
Thackeray's  most  successful  undertaking.  The  sale  of  the 
magazine  was  almost  unprecedented,  and  its  editor's  jubilant 
letters  show  how  keenly  he  enjoyed  the  triumph.  He  con- 
tributed to  it  his  Lovel  the  Widower,  Philip,  and  the  delightful 
Roundabout  Papers.  With  the  money  that  the  paper  brought 
him  he  built  for  himself  a  grand  new  house  at  Palace  Green, 
Kensington,  where  he  entertained  both  the  world  of  fashion 
and  the  world  of  literature.  But  his  infirmities  were  growing 
upon  him,  and  the  attacks  of  spasms  to  which  he  had  for  years 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  I 

been  subject  came  with  alarming  frequency.  On  Christmas  j 
Eve  1863  his  servant  carried  to  his  bedside  his  morning  cup 
of  chocolate,  and  found  him  lying  dead.  "  Others  may  walk  ! 
down  to  the  pier  with  us,"  he  had  said  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
"  but  we  must  make  the  voyage  alone."  He  had  made  his  i 
voyage  now,  and  his  great  spirit  was  at  rest  on  the  farther  ' 
shore.  ■ 

Thackeray  was  buried  at  Kensal  Green,  and  a  bust  to  his  j 
memory  was  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Many  tributes, 
in  verse  and  prose,  appeared  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  | 
Dickens  wrote  in  All  the  Year  Round,  and  lyord  Houghton  in  ' 
the  Cornhill.  But  the  truest  and  tenderest  tribute  came  from  I 
his  old  friend  Punch,  in  the  form  of  a  poem  written  by  Mr.  Tom  ; 
Taylor.  This,  although  it  is  so  well  known  as  to  be  almost  \ 
hackneyed,  can  scarcely  be  quoted  too  often,  and  we  will  give  \ 
it  here 

He  was  a  cynic  !     By  his  life  all  wrought 

Of  generous  acts,  mild  words,  and  gentle  ways  ;  ; 

His  heart  wide  open  to  all  kindly  thought, 

His  hand  so  quick  to  give,  his  tongue  to  praise  I 

He  was  a  cynic  1     You  might  read  it  writ  j 

In  that  broad  brow,  crowned  with  its  silver  hair  ; 

In  those  blue  eyes,  with  childUke  candour  Ut, 
In  that  sweet  smile  his  lips  were  wont  to  wear  ! 

He  was  a  cynic  I     By  the  love  that  clung  j 

About  him  from  his  children,  friends,  and  kin  ;  j 

By  the  sharp  pain  light  pen  and  gossip  tongue 

Wrought  in  him,  chafing  the  soft  heart  within.  I 


478 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 
DAVID   COPPERFIELD 

IT  will  be  easily  believed,"  wrote  Charles  Dickens,  " that 
I  am  a  fond  parent  to  every  child  of  my  fancy,  and 
that  no  one  can  ever  love  that  family  as  dearly  as  I 
love  them.  But,  like  many  fond  parents,  I  have  in  my  heart 
of  hearts  a  favourite  child — and  his  name  is  David  Copper- 
field."  Most  of  Dickens's  readers  share  his  partiaHty  for  this 
favourite  child.  It  is  neither  his  eldest  nor  his  youngest  born, 
but  belongs  to  that  middle  period  which  saw  the  fullness  of  his 
powers.  When  he  began  to  write  it  he  was  thirty-seven  years 
old,  and  the  idol  of  the  EngUsh  reading  public.  Already  he 
had  produced  seven  out  of  the  fifteen  novels  that  were  to  form 
his  main  contribution  to  English  literature.  Pickwick  Papers 
had  begun  to  appear  in  1836,  and  Dickens  had  followed  up 
this  first  success  with  Oliver  Twist  (1838),  Nicholas  Nicklehy 
(1839),  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  (1840),  Barnahy  Rudge  (1841), 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  (1843),  Dombey  and  Son  (1848).  Novel  had 
followed  novel  in  this  wonderful  series  each  so  full  of  characters, 
incidents  and  details,  each  so  abounding  in  life  and  high 
spirits  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  entire  energies  and  accumulated 
observation  of  the  writer  must  have  been  expended  on  one 
work  alone.  It  was  a  marvellous  achievement,  and  the  man 
who  had  so  triumphantly  accompUshed  it  might  well  have 
thought  that  the  time  for  rest  had  come.  But  Dickens's  store 
of  energy  seemed  inexhaustible.  No  sooner  was  Dombey  and 
Son  finished  than  he  plunged  into  new  enterprises.  His 
enthusiasm  for  the  stage  was  almost  as  great  as  his  enthusiasm 
for  literature,  and  from  1847  "to  1852  he  stage-managed  an 
amateur   theatrical   company   which    gave  performances  in 

479 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Manchester,  Liverpool  and  London,  had  the  honour  of  per- 
forming before  Queen  Victoria,  and  gathered  in  large  sums  ^ 
for  various  charities.  He  was,  moreover,  becoming  famous  as  ] 
a  public  speaker,  and  charitable  and  educational  institutions  > 
were  eager  to  secure  him  for  their  meetings.  To  such  calls  his  j 
active  spirit  of  benevolence  and  his  enthusiasm  for  reform  \ 
made  him  give  a  willing  response.  Added  to  this,  he  founded  j 
in  1849  a  new  periodical.  Household  Words,  of  which  he  became  | 
the  very  efficient  editor,  and  to  which  he  regularly  contributed.  I 
His  circle  of  friends,  meanwhile,  was  growing  larger  and  \ 
larger,  and  his  social  life  fuller  and  richer.  Thackeray  was  ' 
now  one  of  his  intimates,  and  nobody  rejoiced  at  the  success  ; 
of  Vanity  Fair  more  heartily  than  did  Charles  Dickens.  So  ; 
with  fun  and  laughter,  with  hard  work  and  hard  play,  each  1 
undertaken  with  equal  zest,  the  days  of  these  happy  years 
went  by ;  and  when  the  busy  day  was  over  there  were  the  i 
midnight  tramps  through  the  London  streets  that  soothed 
the  fervid  brain  even  while  they  provided  the  material  for  ' 
renewed  mental  activity.  I 

Amid  all  these  occupations  and  interests  the  plan  of  a  new  ' 
work  was  gradually  forming  in  Dickens's  brain.     A  question 
concerning  his  childhood,  put  to  him  in  March  or  April  1847 
by  his  friend  John  Forster,  had  sent  his  thoughts  backward  I 
toward  that  early  time.     A  little  later  he  gave  to  his  friend — 
whom  even  then  he  regarded  as  his  future    biographer — a   , 
paper  in  which  he  had  written  an  account  of  his  boyish  | 
experiences.     The  memories  thus  recalled  mingled  with  the 
thought  of  the  new  novel  then  floating  in  his  brain,  and  the   i 
result  was  a  story  which,  in  many  of  its  details,  especially 
those  connected  with  the  early  life  of  the  hero,  is  autobio-   | 
graphical.     Passages  from  the  account  given  to  John  Forster 
appear    almost    without    alteration ;     and    although    David    . 
Copperfield  is  not  to  be  identified  with  Charles  Dickens,  he    i 
may  be  regarded  as  reflecting  to  a  very  large  degree  his  creator's    j 
character,  disposition  and  ambitions.  1 

As  was  usual  with  Dickens,  he  found  some  difficulty  in 
getting  his  story  fairly  started.    The  choice  of  a  title  delayed,    ; 
48Q 


IBP       DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

him  for  a  long  time.  Forster  gives  a  list  of  suggestions  sent 
to  him,  by  which  it  appears  that  Dickens  was  strongly  in 
favour  of  Mag's  Diversions  as  the  leading  phrase.  "  Mag  *' 
was  to  stand  for  David's  aunt  Margaret,  who  was  a  prominent 
figure  in  Dickens's  earliest  conception  of  the  story.  The  hero's 
surname  also  gave  some  trouble.  It  arrived  at  last  by  way  of 
Trotfield,  Trotbury,  Copperboy  and  Copper  stone  at  Copper- 
field,  and  Aunt  Margaret  developed  into  Betsey  Trot  wood. 
The  title  then  took  shape  as  The  Personal  History  and  Experi- 
ence of  David  Copper  field  the  Younger. 

These  preliminaries  being  satisfactorily  settled,  the  story 
went  merrily  on.  The  first  number  was  published  in  May 
1849.  Miss  Betsey  made  her  appearance  in  the  first  chapter, 
preceding  even  the  hero,  but  had  scarcely  established  herself 
as  a  public  favourite  before  she  disappeared.  The  chapters 
which  tell  of  David's  earliest  years  have,  except  in  one  or  two 
scattered  passages,  no  foundation  in  actual  fact.  Charles 
Dickens  was  not  an  orphan,  nor  did  he  live  at  Blunderstone, 
near  Yarmouth.  His  father,  John  Dickens,  was  a  clerk  in 
the  Navy  Pay  Office,  and,  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  his  eldest 
son,  Charles,  was  living  at  lyandport,  a  suburb  of  Portsea.  In 
1816  he  was  moved  to  Chatham,  and  there  he  lived  until  1823. 
The  boy's  early  recollections,  therefore,  were  not  of  the 
*  spongy  and  soppy '  flats  of  Yarmouth — which  indeed 
Dickens  never  saw  until  1849 — ^^^  ^^  "the  pleasant  hills  and 
bowery  lanes  of  Kent,  the  picturesque  streets  of  Rochester, 
the  soldiers  in  their  bright  uniforms  marching  and  manoeuvring 
on  the  open  spaces  down  by  the  River  Med  way.  But  he  began 
his  education  as  David  Copperfield  began  his,  through  the 
medium  of  the  '  fat  black  letters  in  the  primer  '  which  his 
mother  taught  him  at  her  knee  ;  and,  like  David,  he  found 
comfort  for  the  troubles  of  his  boyhood  in  a  small  collection  of 
books  belonging  to  his  father,  which  were  stored  in  a  little 
room  upstairs.  "  From  that  blessed  little  room,  Roderick 
Random,  Peregrine  Pickle,  Humphrey  Clinker,  Tom  Jones, 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Don  Quixote,  Gil  Bias  and  Robinson 
Crusoe  came  out^  a  glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company."     This 

48.1 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

was  the  most  important  part  of  Dickens's  early  education. 
What  he  gained  from  these  books  he  never  lost,  and  their 
influence  is  clearly  to  be  seen  in  his  own  Hterary  work. 

It  is  when  we  approach  the  Murdstone  and  Grinby  scenes 
in  the  life  of  David  Copperfield  that  the  resemblance  between 
his  experience  and  that  of  Dickens  becomes  clearly  marked. 
When  Charles  Dickens  was  eleven  years  old,  his  father  removed 
to  London,  and  the  family  fell  upon  evil  times.  John  Dickens 
was  one  of  those  good-natured,  incompetent  and  incorrigibly 
hopeful  persons  whom  his  son  has  pictured  in  Mr.  Micawber. 
He  was  constantly  in  money  difficulties,  and  these  now  reached 
an  acute  stage.  In  I^ondon  the  family  lived  at  Bayham  Street, 
Camden  Town,  then  one  of  the  poorest  of  the  suburban 
districts.  To  these  squalid  surroundings  the  intelHgent,  sensi- 
tive little  boy  was  transplanted.  "  As  I  thought,"  he  said, 
long  afterward,  "  in  the  little  back-garret  in  Bayham  Street, 
of  all  I  had  lost  in  losing  Chatham,  what  would  I  have  given, 
if  I  had  had  anything  to  give,  to  have  been  sent  back  to  any 
other  school,  to  have  been  taught  something  anywhere  !  " 
"  I  know  my  father  to  be  as  kind-hearted  and  generous  a  man 
as  ever  hved  in  the  world.  .  .  .  But,  in  the  ease  of  his  temper, 
and  the  straitness  of  his  means,  he  appeared  to  have  utterly 
lost  at  this  time  the  idea  of  educating  me  at  all,  and  to  have 
utterly  put  from  him  the  notion  that  I  had  any  claim  upon 
him,  in  that  regard  whatever.  So  I  degenerated  into  cleaning 
his  boots  of  a  morning,  and  my  own ;  and  making  myself 
useful  in  the  work  of  the  little  house ;  and  looking  after  my 
younger  brothers  and  sisters  (we  were  now  six  in  all)  ;  and 
going  on  such  poor  errands  as  arose  out  of  our  poor  way  of 
Uving." 

These  errands  included  those  pitiful  little  journeys  to  the 
pawnbroker  which  he  has  represented  David  as  making  on 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Micawber.  Other  experiences  of  the  Bayham 
Street  household  he  has  narrated  in  the  same  connexion. 
The  great  brass  plate  which  covered  the  centre  of  the  front 
door  at  Mrs.  Micawber's  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  bore  a 
legend  similar  to  that  which  announced  "  Mrs.  Dickens  Board- 
482 


Charles  Dickens 


48s 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

Qg  Establishment  for  Young  Ladies,"  in  Bay  ham  Street. 
Great  hopes  had  been  raised  in  the  boy's  breast  by  the  plan  of 
which  this  brass  plate  was  the  symbol ;  but  they  came  to 
nothing.  "  I  left,"  he  says,  "  at  a  great  many  other  doors, 
a  great  many  circulars  calling  attention  to  the  merits  of  the 
establishment,  yet  nobody  ever  came  to  the  school,  nor  do.  I 
recollect  that  anybody  ever  proposed  to  come,  or  that  the 
least  preparation  was  made  to  receive  anybody.  But  I  know 
that  we  got  on  very  badly  with  the  butcher  and  baker  ;  that 
very  often  we  had  not  too  much  for  dinner ;  and  that  at  last 
my  father  was  arrested." 

The  crisis  thus  came  to  John  Dickens  as  it  came  to  Mr. 
Micawber,  and  the  details  of  the  debtors*  prison  as  given  in 
David  Copper  field  are  drawn  from  life.  Drawn  from  life  also 
is  the  story  of  David's  experiences  at  the  warehouse  of  Murd- 
stone  and  Grinby.  When  John  Dickens  was  taken  to  prison, 
the  family  had  "  encamped,  with  a  young  servant  girl  from 
Chatham  workhouse  in  the  two  parlours  of  the  emptied 
house,"  where  the  furniture  had  been  seized  for  rent.  To  this 
house  came  one  day  a  relative  of  the  family  who  was  connected 
with  a  blacking  warehouse  lately  established  at  Hungerford 
Stairs,  Strand.  He  proposed  that  the  little  Charles,  then  eleven 
years  old,  should  begin  work  at  the  blacking  factory  at  a 
salary  of  six  shillings  a  week,  and  his  offer  was  accepted. 

Then  began  for  Charles  Dickens  a  period  of  deep  misery 
and  intense  humiliation.  "It  is  wonderful  to  me,"  he  says, 
"  that  even  after  my  descent  into  the  poor  little  drudge  I  had 
been  since  we  came  to  lyondon,  no  one  had  compassion  enough 
on  me — a  child  of  singular  abilities,  quick,  eager,  delicate,  and 
soon  hurt,  bodily  or  mentally — to  suggest  that  something 
might  have  been  spared,  as  certainly  it  might  have  been,  to 
place  me  at  any  common  school.  Our  friends,  I  take  it,  were 
tired  out.  No  one  made  any  sign.  My  father  and  mother 
were  quite  satisfied.  They  could  hardly  have  been  more  so, 
if  I  had  been  twenty  years  of  age,  distinguished  at  a  grammar- 
school,  and  going  to  Cambridge. 

"  The  blacking  warehouse  was  the  last  house  on  the  left- 

483 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

hand  side  of  the  way,  at  old  Hungerford  Stairs.  It  was 
crazy,  tumble-down  old  house,  abutting,  of  course,  on  the! 
river,  and  literally  overrun  with  rats.  Its  wainscotted  rooms, 
and  its  rotten  floors  and  staircase,  and  the  old  grey  rats 
swarming  down  in  the  cellars,  and  the  sound  of  their  squeaking 
and  scuffling  coming  up  the  stairs  at  all  times,  and  the  dirt 
and  decay  of  the  place,  rise  up  visibly  before  me,  as  if  I  were 
there  again."  Here  he  was  employed  in  tying  up  pots  of 
blacking  and  pasting  labels  upon  them. 

*'  No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony  of  my  soul  as  I  .  .  . 
felt  my  early  hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and  distin-  - 
guished  man,  crushed  in  my  breast.  The  deep  remembrance! 
of  the  sense  I  had  of  being  utterly  neglected  and  hopeless  ;  of  I 
the  shame  I  felt  in  my  position ;  of  the  misery  it  was  to  my ! 
young  heart  to  believe  that,  day  by  day,  what  I  had  learned,  i 
and  thought,  and  delighted  in,  and  raised  my  fancy  and  my| 
emulation  up  by,  was  passing  away  from  me,  never  to  he 
bought  back  any  more  ;  cannot  be  written." 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Dickens,  with  the  family,  moved  into  the^ 
prison,  and  then  lodgings  were  taken  for  Charles  in  a  neigh-^ 
bouring  street.  Sundays  he  spent  in  the  prison.  The  rent  of; 
this  lodging  was  paid  by  his  father ;  for  all  other  necessities] 
the  child  had  to  depend  upon  his  poor  weekly  wage.  Thel 
shifts  and  straits  of  David  Copperfield,  the  scanty  dinners,  the; 
reckless  indulgence  in  stale  pastry,  the  birthday  treat  of  a' 
glass  of  the  '  Genuine  Stunning  *  ale — all  these  things  belong; 
to  the  history  of  Charles  Dickens.  "  I  know,"  he  said,  in  the< 
account  that  he  wrote  for  his  friend,  "  I  do  not  exaggerate,! 
unconsciously  and  unintentionally,  the  scantiness  of  my 
resources  and  the  difficulties  of  my  life.  I  know  that  if  a, 
shilling  or  so  were  given  me  by  anyone,  I  spent  it  in  a  dinner' 
or  a  tea.  I  know  that  I  worked,  from  morning  to  night,  with; 
common  men  and  boys,  a  shabby  child.  I  know  that  I  tried, ; 
but  ineffectually,  not  to  anticipate  my  money,  and  to  make; 
it  last  the  week  through ;  by  putting  it  away  in  a  drawer  I^ 
had  in  the  counting-house,  wrapped  into  six  little  parcels,' 
each  parcel  containing  the  same  amount,  and  labelled  with  at 

484 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

liffereut  day.  I  kuow  that  I  have  lounged  about  the  streets, 
i  isuflSciently  and  unsatisfactorily  fed.  I  know  that,  but  for 
the  mercy  of  God,  I  might  easily  have  been,  for  any  care  that 
w  as  taken  of  me,  a  little  robber  or  a  little  vagabond." 

Dickens  did  not,  as  David  did,  run  away  from  the  employ- 
ment that  was  so  hateful  to  him.  His  release  came  in  a 
different  fashion.  After  a  time  John  Dickens  made  a  composi- 
tion with  his  creditors  and  was  released  from  prison.  I^ater, 
lie  quarrelled  with  the  relative  who  had  suggested  Charles's 
(.employment  in  the  blacking  factory,  and  in  his  anger,  removed 
his  son  from  the  employment.  "  With  a  relief  so  strange  that 
it  was  like  oppression,"  says  Charles  Dickens,  "  I  went 
home.  .  .  .  From  that  hour  until  this  at  which  I  write,  no 
word  of  that  part  of  my  childhood  which  I  have  now  gladly 
brought  to  a  close,  has  passed  my  lips  to  any  human  being.  I 
have  no  idea  how  long  it  lasted  ;  whether  for  a  year,  or  much 
more,  or  less.  From  that  hour  until  this,  my  father  and  my 
mother  have  been  stricken  dumb  upon  it.  I  have  never  heard 
the  least  allusion  to  it,  however  far  of!  and  remote,  from  either 
of  them.  I  have  never,  until  I  now  impart  it  to  this  paper, 
in  any  burst  of  confidence  with  anyone,  my  own  wife  not 
excepted,  raised  the  curtain  I  then  dropped,  thank  God. 

"  Until  old  Hungerford  Market  was  pulled  down,  until  old 
Hungerford  Stairs  were  destroyed,  and  the  very  nature  of  the 
ground  changed,  I  never  had  the  courage  to  go  back  to  the 
place  where  my  servitude  began.  I  never  saw  it.  I  could  not 
endure  to  go  near  it.  For  many  years,  when  I  came  near  to 
Robert  Warren's,  in  the  Strand,  I  crossed  over  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  to  avoid  a  certain  smell  of  the  cement  they 
put  upon  the  blacking-corks,  which  reminded  me  of  what  I 
was  once.  It  was  a  very  long  time  before  I  liked  to  go  up 
Chandos  Street.  My  old  way  home  by  the  Borough  made  me 
cry  after  my  eldest  child  could  speak. 

*'  In  my  walks  at  night  I  have  walked  there  often,  since 
then,  and  by  degrees  I  have  come  to  write  this.  It  does  not 
seem  a  tithe  of  what  I  might  have  written,  or  of  what  I  meant 
to  write." 

48s 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

It  was  with  a  thrill  of  amazement  and  sympathy  that  the 
public  first  read  the  words  that  have  been  quoted  in  Forster's  | 
Life  of  Dickens,  published  in  1872.     When,  however,  the  story 
of  David  Copperfield  was  appearing  month  by  month  through- 
out the  summer  of  1849,  ^^  one  except  Forster  himself  had  1 
any  idea  that  the  author  was  relating  his  own  experiences..] 
But  when  the  hero  had  escaped  to  the  care  of  his  aunt,  the 
delightful  Betsey  Trotwood,  had  passed  through  Dr.  Strong's 
school,  and  had  become  an  articled  clerk  to  a  proctor  of 
Doctors  Commons,  there  were  slight  resemblances  between  his 
career  and  that  of  Dickens,  which  were  fairly  obvious  to  his^ 
intimate  friends.    After  attending  for  two  years  a  school  in! 
the  neighbourhood  of  his  home,  Dickens  had  become  a  lawyer's  I 
clerk.     The  ambition  which  even  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  ; 
his  earUer  circumstances  had  not  been  able  entirely  to  stifle,  j 
now  woke  in  full  power.    He  endeavoured  by  regular  and  I 
careful  reading  at  the  British  Museum  to  make  up,  as  far  as  | 
possible,  for  his  lack  of  early  education.    I/ike  David  Copper-  i 
field,  he  aspired  to  become  a  reporter,  and  to  this  end  began  j 
to  learn  shorthand,  the  acquiring  of  perfect  knowledge  of\ 
which  is,  he  estimates,   "  about  equal  in  difficulty  to  the  -. 
mastery  of  six  languages."  j 

Both  Dickens  and  David  Copperfield  triumphed  over  the  j 
'  savage  stenographic  mystery,'  however,  and  became  Parlia-  ] 
mentary  reporters  of  high  standing.  The  next  venture  of  j 
these  two  prototypes  was  a  venture  in  authorship.  "  I  wrote  ; 
a  little  something  in  secret,"  says  David,  "  and  sent  it  to  a  i 
magazine,  and  it  was  pubHshed  in  the  magazine."  Dickens  ; 
tells  us  how  one  evening,  he  dropped  "  with  fear  and  trembling,  I 
a  paper  addressed  to  the  Old  Monthly  Magazine  into  a  dark 
letter-box  in  a  dark  office  up  a  dark  court  in  Fleet  Street "  ;  ' 
and  he  tells  of  his  joy  when  he  saw  his  contribution  in  print,  j 
"  I  walked  down  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  turned  into  it  for  \ 
half  an  hour,  because  my  eyes  were  so  dimmed  with  joy  and  ' 
pride,  that  they  could  not  bear  the  street,  and  were  not  fit  | 
to  be  seen  there." 

From  this  point  the  careers  of  David  and  of  Dickens  diverge  \ 
486  i 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

widely.  Both  become  famous  authors,  but  in  no  other  respect 
can  a  Hkeness  be  traced.  It  remains  to  say  a  few  words 
about  the  originals  of  some  of  the  characters  of  David  Copper- 
field  ;  and  first  of  all,  of  Dora.  Dora  is  drawn  from  Dickens's 
first  love.  Who  she  was  he  does  not  tell  us,  but  upon  the 
strength  of  his  affection  he  is  almost  as  eloquent  as  is  David. 

I  don't  quite  apprehend,"  he  wrote  to  Forster,  who  had 
ventured  to  doubt  the  reality  of  his  youthful  passion,  "  what 
you  mean  by  my  overrating  the  strength  of  the  feeling  of 
five-and-twenty  years  ago.  If  you  mean  of  my  own  feeling 
and  will  only  think  what  the  desperate  intensity  of  my  nature 
is,  and  that  this  began  when  I  was  Charley's  (his  son's)  age ; 
that  it  excluded  every  other  idea  from  my  mind  for  four 
years,  at  a  time  of  life  when  four  years  are  equal  to  four  times 
four  ;  and  that  I  went  at  it  with  a  determination  to  overcome 
all  the  difficulties,  wliich  fairly  lifted  me  up  into  that  news- 
paper life,  and  floated  me  away  over  a  hundred  men's  heads  ; 
then  you  are  wrong,  because  nothing  can  exaggerate  that.  .  .  , 
And  just  as  I  can  never  open  that  book  as  I  open  any  other 
book,  I  cannot  see  the  face  (even  at  four-and-forty)  or  hear 
the  voice  without  going  wandering  away  over  the  ashes  of  all 
that  youth  and  hope  in  the  wildest  manner."  Dickens,  it 
appears,  kept  up  in  his  later  years,  the  acquaintance  of  his 
early  love.  A  month  after  the  letter  just  quoted  was  written, 
he  went  to  call  upon  her,  and  records  that  he  saw,  with 
unmoved  composure,  her  favourite  dog  Jip,  stuffed,  in  the 
hall.  Soon  after,  he  began  to  write  Little  Dorrit,  in  which  the 
portrait  of  Flora  is  drawn  from  the  same  original  as  that  of 
Dora  in  his  earlier  work. 

For  Mr.  Micawber  as  has  already  been  stated,  some  hints 
were  obtained  from  the  character  of  the  elder  Dickens.  Certain 
peculiarities  of  speech  which  had  always  been  a  source  of 
amusement  to  his  son,  were  bestowed  upon  the  great  Mr. 
Micawber,  who,  moreover,  resembled  his  prototype  in  chronic 
impecuniosity  and  perennial  hopefulness.  But  the  portrait  is 
in  no  sense  an  unkindly  one,  and  was  never  resented  by  John 
Dickens.    In  the  case  of  another  character  of  David  Copper- 

487 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

field,  its  author  was  not  equally  fortunate.  When  the  number  | 
appeared  in  which  Miss  Mowcher  was  first  introduced  to  his  j 
readers,  he  received  a  letter  from  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  j 
afflicted  in  a  manner  similar  to  the  dwarf  of  his  story,  reproach-  J 
ing  him  with  having  thus  held  her  up  to  ridicule.  Dickens  ! 
was  full  of  contrition.  He  declared  that  he  had  had  no  idea  the  \ 
portrait  would  be  recognized  ;  that  several  of  Miss  Mowcher's  : 
characteristics — notably  her  habit  of  saying,  "  Ain't  I  volatile  ?"  j 
— had,  in  fact,  been  identified  by  his  friends  as  belonging  to  \ 
quite  another  person ;  that  he  would  do  his  best  to  remove  i 
the  unpleasant  impression  he  had  created,  and,  to  this  end,  , 
would  give  to  Miss  Mowcher  a  role  quite  different  from  that  | 
which  had  originally  been  planned  for  her.  It  was  in  the  \ 
fulfilment  of  this  promise  that  the  little  dwarf  was  made  j 
instrumental  in  the  capture  of  Littimer.  ■ 

The  Yarmouth  group,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  many  readers  ; 
contains  the  best  characters  in  the  book,  had,  as  far  as  we  - 
know,  no  direct  originals.  Dickens  was  always  most  at  home  i 
in  drawing  characters  from  humble  life.  His  natural  sympathy  i 
combined  with  his  early  experiences,  gave  him  a  keen  apprecia-  | 
tion  of  the  difficulties  and  temptations  of  the  poor,  and  of  \ 
the  virtues  which,  as  he  has  taught  us,  flourish  so  freely  1 
among  them.  He  knew  best  and  could  draw  best,  the  poor  j 
of  lyondon  ;  but  during  the  summers  spent  at  Broadstairs  and 
at  other  watering-places,  both  English  and  French,  he  always,  i 
in  his  own  pleasant,  hearty  fashion,  made  friends  with  the  ; 
fisherfolk  and  boatmen  ;  and  he  certainly  paid  these  friends  i 
of  his  a  high  compliment  when  he  introduced  to  the  reading  ' 
world,  as  their  representatives,  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham.  . 

The  last  number  of  David  Copperfield  appeared  in  November  ; 
1850,  and  with  it  Dickens  reached  the  height  of  his  fame.     He  | 
wrote  seven  more  novels  during  the  twenty  years  of  life  that  ] 
remained  to  him,  but  these,  except  perhaps  A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities  and  Great  Expectations,  show,  in  comparison  to  the 
early  works,  some  failure  of  inspiration.     His  life  was  an  : 
uneventful   one,   of   almost  unbroken  prosperity.     Its  chief 
incidents  were  a  second  visit  to  America  (1867)  for  the  purpose 
488  ! 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

):  giving  a  series  of  public  readings  from  his  works  in  the 
rhief  towns  of  that  country,  and  the  continuation  of  these 
ea dings  on  his  return  to  England.  Their  popularity,  on  both 
ides  of  the  Atlantic  was  astounding.  They  brought  to 
Dickens  immense  sums  of  money,  but  the  fatigue  and  excite- 
ment incident  to  them  undoubtedly  hastened  his  death. 

On  March  15,  1870,  the  farewell  reading  was  given  at 
St.  James's  Hall.  Dickens's  health  was  much  broken,  but  his 
friends  hoped  that  complete  rest  would  soon  restore  him  to 
his  normal  state.  He  withdrew  to  the  house  at  Gad's  Hill, 
near  Rochester,  which  he  had  bought  twelve  years  before — 
the  very  house  which,  since  he  had  been  '  a  very  queer  small 
l)oy  '  of  nine  it  had  been  his  ambition  to  possess.  Here,  on 
fune  9,  he  died,  quite  suddenly,  after  having  been  working 
all  the  morning  at  his  novel.  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood. 

He  was  deeply  and  sincerely  mourned  by  all  classes,  both 
in  England  and  America.  Men  were  conscious  of  a  personal 
loss,  of  a  feeling  that  some  genial,  kindly  influence  had  passed 
out  of  their  lives.  The  story  of  the  ragged  market  girl  at 
Covent  Garden  who,  when  she  was  told  that  Dickens  was 
dead,  cried,  "  Will  Christmas  die  too,  then  ?  "  is  typical  of 
the  way  in  which  Dickens  was  regarded  by  a  large  section  of 
the  British  people.  He  had  done  much  by  his  writings  to 
revive  the  keeping  of  Christmas  as  a  great  national  home 
festival,  and  he  stood  in  the  minds  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
for  all  those  feelings  that  are  associated  with  Christmas — 
goodwill,  and  mirth,  and  kindliness  and  home  affection,  and 
the  reaching  out  of  hands  toward  poorer  brethren. 

In  the  early  morning  of  June  14,  Charles  Dickens  was  laid 
to  rest  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The  service,  in  accordance 
with  his  own  strongly  expressed  wish,  was  strictly  private,  and 
for  the  same  reason  no  monument  or  pubUc  memorial  has 
been  raised  to  his  memory.  "  I  rest  my  claim  to  the  remem- 
brance of  my  country,"  he  had  proudly  said,  "on  my 
published  works." 

21  489 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

1 

JANE   EYRE  i 

ON  a  cold  winter's  day  toward  the  end  of  February  1820J 
the  Reverend  Patrick  Bronte,  an  Irish  clergyman,! 
arrived,  to  take  up  his  position  as  rector  of  the  parish j 
of  Haworth,  in  Yorkshire.  The  village  people  long  remem-^ 
bered  how  the  seven  heavily  laden  carts,  which  were  bringing ^ 
the  new  parson's  goods  from  his  previous  home  at  Thornton,,^ 
near  Bradford,  were  dragged  slowly  up  the  steep  village  street, 
toward  the  turning  which  led  to  Haworth  parsonage  ;  and! 
they  remembered  the  small,  neat,  delicate-looking  lady  who 
was  driven  in  from  the  neighbouring  town  of  Keighley  a  few! 
days  afterward.  This  lady  was  the  parson's  wife,  and  shei 
brought  with  her  six  tiny  children,  the  eldest  not  much  more  i 
than  six  years  old.  They  were  frail  little  mites,  so  quiet  and ; 
'  old-fashioned,'  that,  as  the  homely  Yorkshire  servants  after- 1 
ward  said,  you  would  scarcely  know  there  was  a  child  about 
the  house.  In  intellect  they  were  almost  alarmingly  pre-j 
cocious,  and  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  two  eldest,  Maria] 
and  Blizabeth,  and  perhaps  even  the  third,  Charlotte,  were ; 
conscious  of  the  strangeness  of  their  surroundings,  and  had  | 
their  own  thoughts  and  anticipations  concerning  the  new  life ' 
on  which  they  were  entering.  What  did  they  think,  we " 
wonder,  of  the  heavily  built  grey  stone  house  that  stood  so  \ 
bleakly  on  the  hill  looking  down  upon  the  village  ;  of  the  little.  1 
church  standing  directly  opposite ;  of  the  graveyard  rising  ^ 
behind  the  church,  thickly  sown  with  solid,  upright,  tomb-  1 
stones  ;  of  the  moors  which  rose  away  and  away  behind  the  : 
graveyard,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  their  dark  wave-like  J 
lines  broken  only  by  white  patches  of  snow  ?  In  after  life  the  \ 
490  \ 


^f  JANE    EYRE 

children  grew  to  love  those  moors,  whose  great,  bare,  lonely 
stretches  had  in  them  something  congenial  to  their  own  shy, 
yet  wild  spirits.  From  the  first  the  moors  were  their  play- 
ground— if  such  quiet,  grave  little  creatures  could  ever  be 
said  to  play.  Their  old  nurse  has  told  how  they  used  to  start 
out,  the  elder  children  carefully  leading  the  toddling  little  ones 

-Branwell,  the  only  boy  of  the  family,  Bmily,  and  baby 
Anne.  A  strong  affection  bound  them  all  together,  and  Maria, 
the  eldest  girl,  was  like  a  little  mother  to  the  others.  Before 
she  was  eight  years  old  she  was,  in  truth,  the  only  mother  they 
had,  for  Mrs.  Bronte  fell  ill  soon  after  she  came  to  Haworth, 
and  died  in  September  182 1.  I*or  more  than  a  year  the  little 
group  of  motherless  children  lived  in  the  lonely  parsonage, 
with  such  tendance  as  a  rough  but  kindly  Yorkshire  servant 
could  give.  Their  father  was  occupied  with  his  work,  and 
could  spare  them  little  of  his  time  or  attention.  Toward  the 
end  of  1822  Miss  Branwell,  an  elder  sister  of  their  mother's^ 
came  from  her  distant  Cornish  home  to  look  after  the  household. 
She  looked  well  to  the  children's  bodily  welfare,  and  brought 
up  her  nieces  in  habits  of  obedience  and  punctuality.  She 
taught  them  to  sew,  to  cook,  and  to  manage  household  affairs  ; 
but  their  natures  were  so  different  from  her  own  that  she 
could  do  little  for  their  intellectual  and  spiritual  development. 
They  still  spent  most  of  their  time  alone  together,  in  a  little 
room  upstairs  which  was  called  *  the  children's  study.'  They 
took  a  great  interest  in  politics,  and  Maria  read  the  news- 
papers of  the  day  and  explained  their  contents  to  her  brother 
and  sisters. 

In  July  1824  Maria  and  Elizabeth  were  sent  to  a  school 
wliich  had  lately  been  opened  at  Cowan's  Bridge,  a  tiny  village 
between  Leeds  and  Kendal.  It  was  intended  for  the  daughters 
of  poor  clergymen,  and  the  very  small  fees  were  supplemented 
by  funds  subscribed  by  the  supporters  of  the  school.  The 
domestic  department  seems  to  have  been  badly  mismanaged. 
Charlotte  Bronte  who,  with  Emily,  joined  her  sisters  at  Cowan's 
Bridge  in  December,  has  given  a  terrible  picture  of  the  school 
in  Jane  Eyre,    The  food  was  so  badly  cooked,  and  served  in 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

such  slovenly  fashion,   that  it  was  impossible  for  delicat( 
children  like  the  Brontes — who,  moreover,  were  accustomed) 
in  their  own  home  to  the  most  scrupulous  cleanliness — to  eat  it.  j 
The  harsh  rules  pressed  heavily  on  gentle,  timid  natures,  and: 
illness  was  treated  as  a  fault  rather  than  as  a  misfortune.] 
Under  such  a  system  Maria  Bronte  quickly  sank.     She  wasi 
removed  from  the  school  in  1825  ^^^  died  a  few  weeks  after-  i 
ward.     Before  the  summer  came,  the  next  sister,  Elizabeth, 
too  was  dead.     Charlotte  and  Emily  remained  at  Cowan's] 
Bridge  a  few  months  longer,  but  the  authorities,  alarmed  at| 
their  appearance  of  delicacy,  and  fearful  lest  they  should] 
follow  their   sisters,  advised   that   they  should   not   be   left 
to   pass   another  winter  in  a  situation  which  evidently  did' 
not  suit  their  constitutions.     In  the  autumn  of  1825  they  1 
returned  to  Haworth.  | 

The  diminished  group  of  children — Charlotte  the  eldest,- 
was  now  nearly  ten  years  old — ^took  up  their  old  life.  Missi 
Branwell  gave  them  all  regular  instruction  for  some  hours! 
each  morning,  and,  for  the  rest,  they  educated  themselves.' 
They  read  and  talked  and  discussed  with  their  father  the 
public  events  of  the  time.  They  wrote,  too — tales,  dramas,! 
poems,  romances — and  Charlotte  kept  a  kind  of  irregular; 
diary  which  recorded  the  books  she  had  read — a  remarkable- 
list — the  pictures  she  had  seen  and  those  she  would  like  to; 
see,  and  the  '  make  believes  *  with  which  she  and  her  sisters  1 
beguiled  the  long  quiet  days.  They  roamed  about  on  the  bleak 
and  lonely  moors  and  learned  to  love  them  with  a  passion  i 
which,  though  it  found  little  outward  expression,  was  never-; 
theless  deep  and  strong.  So  they  grew  out  of  childhood  into 
youth. 

In  1831  Charlotte  was  again  sent  to  school,  this  time  to  a 
private  establishment,  situated  on  the  road  between  lycedsj 
and  Huddersfield.  The  head  mistress,  Miss  Wooler,  was  a 
woman  of  rare  qualities  and  great  skill  in  dealing  with  young  i 
girls,  and  the  two  years  Charlotte  spent  there  seem  to  have! 
been  as  happy  as  any  years  could  be  spent  away  from  the] 
home  and  the  family  she  loved  so  dearly.     When  she  first' 

492  i 


Charlotte  Bronte 

George   Richmond 
Photo.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


492 


JANE    EYRE 

entered  Roe  Head,  as  Miss  Wooler's  house  was  called,  she 
was  a  girl  of  fifteen,  very  small  in  figure,  though  well  formed, 
with  soft  thick  brown  hair,  and  reddish-brown  eyes  whose 
"  usual  expression  was  of  quiet  listening  intelligence  ;  but 
now  and  then,  on  some  just  occasion  for  vivid  interest  or  whole- 
some indignation,  a  light  would  shine  out,  as  if  some  spiritual 
lamp  had  been  kindled,  which  glowed  behind  those  expressive 
orbs." 

The  queer  old-fashioned  little  girl  soon  rose  to  the  top  of  the 
school,  and  became  a  great  favourite  with  her  schoolfellows. 
They  delighted  in  the  stories  which,  when  the  mood  was  upon 
her,  she  would  tell  to  them,  and  in  the  strange  fancies  which 
made  her  comments  on  their  everyday  surroundings  so  unique 
and  fascinating.  Her  health  improved  with  the  free  and 
active  open-air  life  that  Miss  Wooler  prescribed  for  her  pupils, 
and  when  she  returned  to  Haworth  in  1832  she  took  with  her 
a  store  of  memories  concerning  the  scenery  and  the  life  of  the 
district  round  about  Roe  Head,  which  memories  she  after- 
ward used  in  Shirley. 

There  followed  two  quiet  years  at  home,  and  then  Charlotte 
returned  to  Roe  Head — this  time  as  a  teacher.  She  felt  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  do  something  by  which  she  could  earn 
money,  now  that  the  calls  upon  her  father  for  the  education 
of  the  younger  ones,  and  especially  of  Branwell,  were  more  than 
his  slender  income  could  well  afford.  Emily  went  with  her 
sister,  as  a  pupil,  but  she  pined  so  for  home  and  for  the  familiar 
moors  that  her  health  suffered,  and  after  three  months  she 
went  back  to  Haworth,  and  Anne  took  her  place  at  Roe  Head. 
To  all  three  girls  Haworth  Parsonage  was  the  one  spot  on  earth 
which  meant  home,  and  about  this  time  they  began  to  scheme 
how  they  could  manage  to  earn  the  money  necessary  for  their 
support,  without  leaving  the  place  they  loved.  Their  thoughts 
naturally  turned  to  authorship,  for  from  their  childish  days 
they  had  been  used  to  writing.  During  the  Christmas  holi- 
days of  1836  they  held  many  consultations  concerning  their 
future  plans.  "  It  was  the  household  custom  among  these 
girls,"  says  Mrs.  Gaskell,  "  to  sew  till  nine  o'clock  at  night.    At 

493 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

that  hour  Miss  Branwell  generally  went  to  bed,  and  her  nieces* 
duties  for  the  day  were  accounted  done.     They  put  away 
their  work,  and  began  to  pace  the  room  backward  and  for- 
ward, up  and  down — as  often  with  the  candles  extinguished, 
for  economy's  sake,  as  not — ^their  figures  glancing  into  the 
firelight,    and   out   into   the   shadow,   perpetually.     At   this 
time,  they  talked  over  past  cares  and  troubles  ;  they  planned 
for  the  future,  and  consulted  each  other  as  to  their  plans." 
The  outcome  of  the  consultations  of  this  winter  was  that 
Charlotte  wrote  to  the  poet  Southey  asking  his  advice  as  to 
taking  up  a  literary  career.     She  received,  after  a  long  in-  : 
terval,  a  reply,  kind  and  sensible,  but  discouraging  the  idea.  \ 
For  another  eighteen  months  she  continued  her  work  at  Roe  | 
Head,  and  Bmily  took  a  situation  at  a  school  in  Halifax  ;  but  \ 
a  breakdown  in  health  obliged  each,  in  the  summer  of  1838,  to  ' 
return  home.     Funds,  however,  were  scanty.     Branwell  had 
already  begun  that  career  of  dissipation  which  was  so  cruelly 
to  disappoint  the  high  hopes  his  family  had  formed  for  him, 
and  make  him  for  years  to  come  the  shame  of  the  simple,  ; 
upright  Ha  worth  household.     His  extravagance  dipped  deeply  5 
into  the  family  purse,  and  in  1839  both  Anne  and  Charlotte  | 
obtained  posts  as  private  governesses.     Another  plan  now  | 
began  to  occupy  the  minds  of  the  three  sisters.     Could  they  ; 
not  open  a  small  school  on  their  own  account  at  Haworth  and  | 
so,  undivided  and  in  their  own  home,  earn  a  sufficient  living  ? 
The  idea  was  eagerly  discussed,  but  with  no  definite  result.  | 
Charlotte,  whose  strong  good  sense  was  one  of  her  marked  \ 
characteristics,  soon  realized  that  the  education  and  accom-  i 
plishments  of  herself  and  her  sisters  were  not  up  to  the  standard  | 
required  for  really  successful  schoolmistresses.     She  resolved  i 
to  make  a  determined  attempt  at  self -improvement,  and  after  ; 
much  discussion,  her  aunt.  Miss  Branwell,  agreed  to  advance  i 
a  sum  of  money  large  enough  to  enable  Charlotte  and  Emily  • 
to  spend  a  year  at  a  school  in  Brussels  for  the  purpose  of  im-  , 
proving  themselves  in  French,  German,  music  and  drawing,  i 
In  1842  they  left  England,  and  established  themselves  at  Brussels 
at  a  school  of  some  reputation,  kept  by  M.  and  Mme,  Heger,  ■ 

494 


(■J^V  JANE    EYRE 

The  story  of  Charlotte's  Brussels  experiences  is  told  in 
Villette,  written  ten  years  later.  It  will  be  enough  to  say  that 
though  both  girls  suffered  agonies  from  loneliness  and  shyness, 
they  profited  greatly  by  their  stay,  and  were  treated,  in  all 
respects,  with  kindness  and  consideration.  In  November 
1842  they  were  recalled  to  England  by  news  of  Miss  Branwell's 
serious  illness,  and  before  they  could  start  on  their  journey 
home  came  a  second  letter  telling  of  her  death.  They  reached 
Haworth  just  before  Christmas,  and  found  that  their  aunt 
had  left  her  small  property  to  be  divided  among  her  three 
nieces.  Thus  provided  with  a  little  capital,  they  revived  their 
plan  of  opening  a  school ;  but  it  was  at  length  agreed  that 
Charlotte  should,  first,  in  accordance  with  a  proposal  made 
by  M.  Heger,  return  to  the  Brussels  school  for  a  year  as  an 
English  teacher.  In  January  1844  she  was  home  again,  and 
the  school  plan  was  seriously  discussed.  Pupils,  however, 
were  hard  to  find,  though  friends  did  their  best.  As  the  year 
went  on  other  circumstances  caused  the  three  girls  silently, 
though  with  much  bitterness  of  heart,  to  drop  their  long- 
cherished  scheme.  Branwell  had  returned  home,  and  his 
habits  of  dissipation  had  now  reached  a  stage  which  made  it 
impossible  that  young  girls  should  be  received  under  the 
same  roof  with  him.  The  years  1844  and  1845  were  terrible 
and  dreary  years  to  the  three  sisters ;  but  they  never  alto- 
gether lost  hope  or  gave  up  the  idea  of  employing  the  talents 
they  felt  that  they  possessed  to  some  useful  purpose.  In  the 
autumn  of  1845  Charlotte  induced  the  reserved  and  silent 
Emily  to  consent  to  add  some  of  her  poems  to  those  written  by 
her  two  sisters,  for  the  purpose  of  publication.  After  some 
difficulty  a  publisher  was  found  who  was  willing  to  produce 
the  book,  at  the  authors*  own  expense.  It  appeared  in  May 
1846,  with  the  title  of  Poems  by  Currer,  Ellis  and  Acton  Bell. 
These  names  had  been  chosen  as  giving  no  idea  of  sex,  and  as 
preserving  the  actual  initials  of  the  authors. 

The  book  attracted  little  notice,  though  it  contained  the 
strange  and  beautiful  poems  of  Emily  Bronte  which  have 
3ince  been  judged  by  critics  to  belong  to  a  very  high  order 

495 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

of  poetry.  The  contributions  of  Charlotte  and  Anne  were 
less  remarkable.  A  second  literary  venture  of  the  sisters  had 
no  better  fortune.  Each  had  written  a  prose  work — Emily 
the  strange  story  so  full  of  wild  untutored  genius,  Wuthering 
Heights,  Charlotte,  The  Professor,  Anne,  Agnes  Grey.  These 
stories  they  sent  round  from  pubHsher  to  publisher,  at  first 
together,  then  separately  ;  but  still,  with  depressing  regularity, 
the  manuscripts  were  returned  to  Haworth  Parsonage. 

Meanwhile,  home  worries  and  troubles,  both  small  and 
great,  harassed  the  three  sisters.  The  old  parsonage  servant. 
Tabby,  was  now  nearly  eighty  years  old,  and  quite  unequal 
to  the  work  required  of  her  ;  but  the  Brontes  would  not  send 
away  one  who  had  served  them  long  and  faithfully,  and 
Tabby  clung  jealously  to  her  position.  Many  household 
duties  therefore  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  two  girls — more  especially 
to  Emily  and  Charlotte,  for  Anne,  the  '  little  one,'  was  always 
more  or  less  weak  and  aiUng,  and  the  other  two  cherished  her 
with  tender,  motherly  care.  Their  father  was  rapidly  ageing  ; 
his  sight  was  failing,  and  it  was  feared  that  he  would  soon  be 
quite  bHnd.  Worst  of  all,  there  was  Branwell,  the  brother 
they  had  so  loved  and  admired,  who  had  given  up  all  attempt 
now  at  earning  his  own  living,  and  was  gradually  drinking 
himself  to  death  before  the  eyes  of  his  old  father  and  his 
agonized  sisters.  It  is  little  wonder  that  their  writings  at  this 
time  bore  traces  of  their  terrible  experience. 

In  July  1846  it  was  decided  that  Mr.  Bronte  must  be  operated 
upon  for  cataract,  and  in  August  Charlotte  and  he  took  lodg- 
ings in  Manchester  for  this  purpose.  The  operation  was 
successfully  performed,  but  Mr.  Bronte  was  obliged  to  remain 
in  Manchester  until  the  end  of  September,  under  the  care  of  the 
oculist.  It  was  at  Manchester,  in  hired  lodgings,  oppressed 
by  anxious  care  for  her  father,  and  away  from  the  sisters 
whose  sympathy  meant  so  much  to  her,  that  Charlotte  began 
to  write  a  new  story.  The  manuscript  of  The  Professor  had 
been  again  returned  to  her  on  the  very  morning  of  the  day  fixed 
for  her  father's  operation ;  but  she  bravely  sent  it  off  again, 
and  resolutely  set  herself  to  her  new  work. 
496 


l^lpK  JANE    EYRE 

In  September  she  came  back  to  Haworth,  and  for  nearly  a 
year  she  wrote  steadily,  during  all  the  leisure  time  she  could 
command,  at  her  story.  A  great  part  of  her  mornings  were 
given  to  domestic  work,  and  throughout  the  day  would  come 
calls  for  attention  from  her  father  and  brother  which  could  not 
be  disregarded.  Too  frequently,  also,  came  dreadful  days 
and  nights,  when  Branwell  kept  the  whole  house  in  terror  by 
his  violence  and  obstinacy,  and  when  all  their  efforts  scarcely 
sufficed  to  keep  the  shameful  skeleton  in  their  cupboard  hidden 
from  the  public  gaze.  But  there  were  times  of  comparative 
quiet  and  security  ;  and  then  Charlotte,  when  her  work  was 
done,  would  sit  down  in  the  quiet  parsonage  parlour,  with 
a  square  of  stiff  cardboard,  some  small  sheets  of  paper  and  a 
pencil.  With  the  board  held  up  close  to  her  short-sighted 
eyes,  she  would  cover  sheet  after  sheet  of  paper  with  her  fine 
minute  handwriting,  pausing  long  sometimes  to  find  the  exact 
word  to  express  her  thought,  but  seldom  altering  what  was 
once  written  down.  As  the  room  grew  dark  she  would  sit 
writing  in  the  firelight ;  then,  after  giving  her  father  his  tea, 
she  would  write  or  sew  with  her  sisters  until  nine  o'clock.  Then, 
in  accordance  with  the  old  custom,  all  work  was  put  away,  the 
candles  extinguished  and  the  three  small,  frail  figures  paced 
backward  and  forward  in  the  fireUght,  telling  of  their  pro- 
gress with  poem  or  story,  sketching  suggested  plots  or  incidents, 
and  discussing  many  points  connected  with  their  work.  It 
was  during  one  of  these  evening  talks  that  Charlotte  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  departing  from  the  accepted  practice 
of  novels  and  of  making  her  heroine  plain  and  insignificant 
instead  of  lovely  and  interesting.  She  told  her  sisters  that 
they  were  wrong — even  morally  wrong — in  making  their 
heroines  beautiful  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  replied  that 
it  was  impossible  to  make  a  heroine  interesting  on  any  other 
terms.  Her  answer  was,  "  I  will  prove  to  you  that  you  are 
wrong  ;  I  will  show  you  a  heroine  as  plain  and  as  small  as 
myself,  who  shall  be  as  interesting  as  any  of  yours."  "  But," 
she  was  careful  to  add,  when  she  told  of  this  incident  at  a  later 
time,  "  she  is  not  myself  any  further  than  that." 

497 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

As  the  story  went  on  her  interest  in  it  became  intense.  ^ 

Every  moment  she  could  spare  she  spent  in  writing  eagerly  ' 
almost  feverishly,   as  the  thoughts  came  rushing  into  her 

brain.     But  she  never  neglected  the  smallest  of  the  house-  ; 

hold  duties  that  fell  to  her  share.     Her  father,  though  he  I 

guessed  from  her  constant  industry  that  some  new  project  j 

was  going  forward,  was  not  taken  into  her  confidence,  lest  if  ' 

the  effort  resulted  again  in  failure,  he  should  feel  the  dis-  . 

appointment  too  keenly.     But  her  sisters  watched  the  progress  i 

of  the  story  with  a  keenness  of  interest  almost  equal  to  her  own.  ; 

At  last  there  came  some  encouragement  from  the  publishers. 

In  the  spring  of  1847,  Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey  were  ■ 

accepted  by  a  publisher,  on  condition  of  the  authors  paying  ; 

the  expenses  of  their  production.     The  Professor  was  still  | 

going  on  its  weary  round.     In  July  it  was  sent  to  Messrs.  : 
Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  and  in  August  a  reply  was  received,  which, 

although  it  contained  a  rejection  of  the  manuscript  was  written  ; 

**  so  courteously,  so  considerately,  in  a  spirit  so  rational,  with  ' 

a  discrimination  so  enlightened,  that  this  very  refusal  cheered  1 

the  author  better  than  a  vulgarly  expressed  acceptance  would  ■ 

have  done.     It  was  added  that  a  work  in  three  volumes  would  i 
meet  with  careful  attention.'* 

Jane  Eyre  was  at  this  time  nearly  finished  ;    in  August  it  j 

was  sent  to  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  and  in  October  it  was  ! 

published.     At  this  time  Vanity  Fair  and  Domhey  and  Son  \ 

were  still  coming  out  in  monthly  numbers ;    Tennyson  had  ' 

just  published   The  Princess,  and  the  literary  and  artistic  , 

world  was  still  occupied  with  Ruskin's  Modern  Painters.     But  ' 

in  spite  of  all  these  pre-occupations  the  public  found  time  to  ; 

read  Jane  Eyre,    The  leading    Reviews  were    cautious,  and  \ 

gave  for  the  most  part  only  meagre  and  guarded  notices  of  | 

this  work  by  an  unknown  author  ;   but  at  all  the  circulating  i 

libraries  the  demand  for  it  increased  every  day.     Readers  ' 

discovered  that  here  was  a  thrilling  and  exciting  story  in  which  \ 

the   characters   were   so   firmly   drawn   and   the   descriptive  ^ 
passages  so  powerful  as  to  show  it  to  be  the  work  of  a  master 
hand. 

498 


JANE    EYRE 

Up  in  the  lonely  Yorkshire  parsonage  the  author  of  the  book 
scarcely  dared  to  believe  the  reports  which  came  to  her  from 
her  publishers.  She  had  become  so  accustomed  to  disappoint- 
ment and  failure  that  she  had  ceased  to  expect  any  other 
result  from  her  efforts.  But  week  by  week  the  sales  of  Jane 
Eyre  went  up,  and  at  last  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  here,  at 
last,  was  a  great  success.  Curiosity  with  regard  to  the  author 
grew  until  it  reached  fever-heat.  Who  could  have  written 
this  wonderful  book,  which  was  capable  of  giving  a  fresh 
sensation  even  to  the  most  jaded  novel  reader  ?  The  names 
of  all  the  great  writers  of  the  day  were  passed  in  review,  but 
without  result,  although  for  a  time  there  was  an  inclination 
to  attribute  Jane  Eyre  to  Thackeray.  Most  people  believed 
*  Currer  Bell  *  to  be  a  man ;  there  was  a  general  suspicion 
that  the  three  '  brothers  Bell '  were  really  one  and  the 
same  person,  and  that  Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey  were 
earlier  works  by  the  author  of  Jane  Eyre.  The  suggestion  that 
the  writer  was  a  woman  was,  however,  freely  discussed.  Miss 
Martineau,  herself  a  celebrated  authoress  of  the  day,  declared 
that  there  was  a  passage  in  the  book  concerning  the  sewing 
of  some  rings  on  curtains  that  could  only  have  been  written  by  a 
woman  or  an  upholsterer.  A  writer  in  the  Quarterly,  December 
1848,  stated  the  conviction  that  if  Jane  Eyre  were  written  by  a 
woman,  it  must  be  by  one  who  had  forfeited  the  right  to  the 
society  of  her  sex.  This  was  only  one  among  many  attacks 
made  upon  the  morality  of  Jane  Eyre — attacks  which  aroused 
in  its  author  the  utmost  pain  and  indignation.  Charlotte 
Bronte  was  strict  in  her  ideas  of  propriety,  she  was  deeply 
and  sincerely  religious,  and  she  had  the  most  exalted  ideals 
concerning  her  work  as  a  novelist.  But  although  outwardly 
she  was  so  quiet,  even  prim,  in  her  demeanour,  fierce  passions 
burnt  within.  The  staid  little  lady  of  thirty  with  her  plain 
face,  shy  manners  and  dress  so  scrupulously  simple  and  neat, 
might  seem  an  unlikely  subject  for  romance  ;  yet  her  concep- 
tion of  love  was  so  strong,  so  deep  and  so  wild  that  she  could 
give  it  in  her  writings  no  conventional  dress.  She  spoke 
out  clearly  and  plainly.    Her  heroine  had  none  of  the  wiles 

499 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  artifices,  the  mock-modesty  and  pretty  coquetry  which 
public  opinion  declared  to  be  so  becoming  in  a  woman.  It 
was  this  unconventionaUty  in  the  portrayal  of  a  woman's  love 
that  seemed  to  some  sections  of  fashionable  society  so  shocking. 
The  book,  though  not  free  from  melodrama  and  extravagance, 
has  in  it  no  suggestion  of  evil. 

Gradually  the  secret  of  the  authorship  of  the  book  was 
revealed.  The  old  father  was  told  first,  and  his  pride  and 
delight  were  extreme.  Business  complications  made  it  neces- 
sary for  Charlotte  to  reveal  her  identity  to  her  publishers, 
and  in  June  1848  she,  with  her  sister  Anne,  paid  a  hurried 
visit  to  lyondon.  But  home  troubles  soon  drove  from  their 
minds  all  thought  of  literary  triumphs.  In  September  their 
brother  Branwell  died,  and  in  December  1848,  Emily,  whose 
health  had  for  some  time  been  failing,  followed  him.  She 
died,  stoical  and  uncomplaining  as  she  had  lived,  and  her 
wonderful  genius  was  quenched  in  its  immaturity.  At  the 
beginning  of  1849  Anne  Bronte,  too,  began  to  decline  rapidly, 
and  in  May  1849  her  death  left  Charlotte  alone  in  the  par- 
sonage, the  sole  stay  of  her  aged  father.  It  was  during  these 
dark  months  that  her  next  book,  Shirley,  was  begun ;  and 
she  persevered  with  it  even  in  the  terrible  depression  caused 
by  such  a  series  of  bereavements.  "  Sometimes  when  I  wake 
in  the  morning,"  she  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  and  know  that 
Solitude,  Remembrance  and  I^onging  are  to  be  almost  my  sole 
companions  all  day  through — ^that  at  night  I  shall  go  to  bed 
with  them,  that  they  will  long  keep  me  sleepless — that  next 
morning  I  shall  wake  to  them  again — sometimes,  Nell,  I  have 
a  heavy  heart  of  it.  But  crushed  I  am  not,  yet ;  nor  robbed 
of  elasticity,  nor  of  hope,  nor  quite  of  endeavour.  I  have 
some  strength  to  fight  the  battle  of  life.  I  am  aware,  and  can 
acknowledge,  I  have  many  comforts,  many  mercies.  Still  I 
can  get  on.  But  I  do  hope  and  pray,  that  never  may  you,  or 
anyone  I  love,  be  placed  as  I  am.  To  sit  in  a  lonely  room — 
the  clock  ticking  loud  through  a  still  house — and  have  open 
before  the  mind's  eye  the  record  of  the  last  year,  with  its 
shocks,  sufferings,  losses — is  a  trial." 
500 


JANE    EYRE 

The  remaining  years  of  her  life  were  passed  in  the  courageous 
patient  spirit  indicated  in  this  letter.  Shirley  appeared  in 
October  1849  ^^^  was  followed  in  1853  by  Villette,  which  is  her 
masterpiece.  Both  these  works  were  received  with  enthusiasm, 
and  as  Charlotte  Bronte  became  generally  known  as  their 
author,  she  grew  to  be  an  object  of  interest  to  all  England. 
In  her  brief  visits  to  London  she  was  f^ted  and  lionized, 
but  she  was  always  glad  to  return  to  the  old  parsonage,  where 
the  care  of  her  father,  and  the  management  of  the  little  house- 
hold divided  her  time  and  attention  with  her  books  and  her 
writing.  In  1854  she  married  one  of  her  father's  curates, 
who  had  long  been  attached  to  her  ;  but  her  married  happiness 
lasted  but  a  few  months.  In  March  1855  she  died.  From 
her  own  day  to  ours  her  fame  has  been  growing,  and  her  place 
as  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  Victorian  novelists  is  now 
assured. 


501 


CHAPTER  L 

SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE 

FROM  the  bleak,  bare  moors  of  Yorkshire  to  the  rich 
pastures  of  the  Midlands — from  Haworth  parsonage 
with  its  grey  stone  walls  standing  four  square  to  all 
the  winds  of  heaven  to  the  "  charming  red-brick  ivy-covered 
house  "  called  Griff,  with  its  delightful,  old-fashioned  garden 
and  noble  trees — this  is  the  change  that  meets  us  when  we 
turn  from  the  life  of  Charlotte  Bronte  to  that  of  *  George  Eliot.' 
A  few  weeks  after  the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte  had  brought  his 
wife  and  children  to  their  new  home  at  Haworth,  Robert  Evans, 
estate  agent,  "  whose  extensive  knowledge  in  very  varied 
practical  departments  made  his  services  valued  through 
several  counties,"  removed  with  his  family  to  Griff.  His 
eldest  daughter,  Christiana,  was  six  years  old  ;  after  her  came 
Isaac,  four  years  old,  and  then  a  little  baby  girl  of  four  months, 
named  Mary  Ann.    This  was  the  future  '  George  Eliot.* 

'  George  Eliot '  was  born  only  three  years  later  than 
'  Currer  Bell,*  yet  she  did  not  begin  her  career  as  a  novelist 
until  two  years  after  the  life  of  her  great  sister-writer  had 
closed.  She  did  not  approach  her  work  with  that  irresistible 
consciousness  of  a  fixed  vocation  which  impelled  the  Bronte 
sisters  to  scribble  tales  and  poems  almost  as  soon  as  they  could 
write  ;  she  advanced  toward  it  slowly  and  haltingly,  with  a 
painful  diffidence  and  a  distrust  of  her  own  powers  which  only 
gave  way  before  strong  encouragement  from  outside.  Hers 
was  one  of  those  natures  that  ripen  slowly,  and  late.  Her  life 
naturally  divides  itself  into  three  parts — an  idyllic  childhood  ; 
a  strenuous  youth,  marked  by  great  emotional  and  intellectual 
activity  ;  and  a  magnificent  maturity,  in  which  she  found  her 
real  life-work,  and  produced  the  series  of  great  novels  that 
502 


If  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE 
ave  made  her  name  famous.  For  the  material  of  these  she 
went  back  to  the  scenes  and  characters  that  had  been  f amiHar 
to  her  in  her  early  years,  and  she  brought  to  the  handling  of 
this  material  the  skill  that  had  been  gained  during  a  long  period 
of  intellectual  training.  She  was  no  wild  untutored  genius, 
but  a  woman  who,  while  familiar  with  the  most  advanced 
philosophic  and  speculative  ideas  of  her  day,  still  kept  a  fresh 
and  keen  sympathy  with  primitive  human  emotions,  a  delight 
in  things  simple,  homely  and  natural,  a  tender  reverence  for 
all  that  belonged  to  her  childish  days.  It  is  this  rare  con- 
junction of  qualities  that  gives  to  her  novels  their  unique 
character.  Over  and  over  again  she  insists  on  the  power  that 
early  recollections  have  to  transform  and  glorify  the  ex- 
periences of  later  life.  "  The  wood  I  walk  in  on  this  mild 
May  day,  with  the  young  yellow-brown  foliage  of  the  oaks 
between  me  and  the  blue  sky,  the  white  star-flowers  and 
the  blue-eyed  speedwell  and  the  ground  ivy  at  my  feet — what 
grove  of  tropic  palms,  what  strange  ferns,  or  splendid  broad- 
petalled  blossoms,  could  ever  thrill  such  deep  and  delicate 
fibres  within  me  as  this  home  scene  ?  .  .  .  Our  delight  in  the 
sunshine  on  the  deep-bladed  grass  to-day,  might  be  no  more 
than  the  faint  perception  of  wearied  souls,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  sunshine  and  the  grass  in  the  far-off  years  which  still  live 
in  us,  and  transform  our  perception  into  love." 

For  twenty-one  years  Mary  Ann  Evans  lived  at  the  beau- 
tiful old  house  where  she  had  been  born.  The  chief  figures  in 
her  life  during  this  period  are  her  father,  her  brother,  and, 
later,  Miss  I^ewis,  a  governess  at  the  school  to  which  she  was 
sent.  All  her  life  long  she  felt  strongly  the  need  of  some  one 
person  to  whom  she  could  cling,  whom  she  could  love  with  a 
passionate,  exclusive  affection,  and  who  would  love  her  after 
the  same  fashion.  She  found  her  first  hero  in  her  brother 
Isaac.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  and  the  Brother  and  Sister 
Sonnets  both  tell  of  this  early  devotion. 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime. 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

S03 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 

Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 

And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 

Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 

Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 

I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boimdary 

Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said,  "  Hush  !  "  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath. 

Wherever  he  said,  "  Come  !  "  I  stepped  in  faith. 

The  two  children  fished  in  the  '*  brown  canal"  that  made  its 
slow  way  round  a  "  grassy  hill "  and  on  across  the  spreading 
meadows ;  they  picked  the  blue  forget-me-nots,  and  looked 
with  awe  on  the  *' black-scathed  grass"  that  "  betrayed  the 
past  abode  of  mystic  gypsies/'  and  the  little  girl  joined  her 
brother  in  boyish  games  of  marbles  and  top-spinning.  But 
when  Isaac  Evans  was  eight  years  old  he  was  sent  away  to  a 
boarding  school,  and  Mary  Ann  went  to  join  her  elder  sister 
at  a  school  at  Attleboro. 

School  parted  us  ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  ever  more  be  singled. 
Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue  : 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime. 
And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung. 
Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 

I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 

For  about  four  years  the  sisters  remained  at  Attleboro,  and 
then  proceeded  to  a  larger  school  at  Nuneaton.  Here  Mary 
Ann  Evans  formed  her  memorable  friendship  with  Miss  I^ewis, 
whose  fervent  piety  and  evangelical  opinions  had  a  strong 
influence  on  her  ardent  and  impressionable  pupil.  From 
Nuneaton  she  went  to  Coventry  to  a  school  kept  by  two  sisters, 
the  Misses  Franklin,  where  her  religious  tendencies  were 
deepened  and  strengthened.  At  all  three  schools  she  had 
shown  remarkable  aptitude  in  her  studies,  especially  in  music, 
504 


George  Eliot 

Sir  F.  W.  Burton 

Photo.  Emery  Walker  Ltd. 


504 


I 


SCENES    OF    CLERICAL    LIFE 

literature,  and  English  composition,  and  was  looked  upon  as 
a  girl  of  great  and  unusual  talents. 

She  came  back  to  the  old  home  at  Griff  in  1835,  a  girl  of 
sixteen  probably  very  much  like  her  own  heroine,  Maggie 
Tulliver  ;  — "A  creature  full  of  eager  passionate  longings  for 
all  that  was  beautiful  and  glad  ;  thirsty  for  all  knowledge  ; 
with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy  music  that  died  away  and 
would  not  come  near  to  her  ;  with  a  blind  unconscious  yearn- 
ing for  something  that  would  link  together  the  wonderful 
impressions  of  this  mysterious  life,  and  give  her  soul  a  sense 
of  home  in  it."  But  strongest  of  all  her  impulses  was  that 
toward  religion.  Her  letters  to  Miss  Lewis  at  this  time  show 
how  completely  her  religion  dominated  her  life.  She  even 
inclined  to  regard  the  music  she  loved  so  much  as  sinful 
because  it  distracted  her  thoughts  from  higher  things,  and  she 
condemned  novel  reading  as  not  only  useless  but  pernicious. 

In  1836  Mrs.  Evans  died,  after  a  long  and  painful  illness 
during  which  she  was  nursed  with  the  greatest  devotion  by 
both  her  daughters.  The  next  year  Christiana  Evans  married, 
and  the  younger  sister  was  left  in  the  old  house  alone  with  her 
father.  She  became  an  excellent  house- wife,  and  prided 
herself  upon  her  household  arrangements,  her  cooking  and 
preserves.  At  the  same  time  she  tried  to  carry  on  the  studies 
that  had  been  begun  at  school.  "  My  mind,"  she  wrote  to 
Miss  Lewis  in  1839,  "  presents  an  assemblage  of  disjointed 
specimens  of  history,  ancient  and  modern  ;  scraps  of  poetry 
picked  up  from  Shakespeare,  Cowper,  Wordsworth  and  Milton  ; 
newspaper  topics  ;  morsels  of  Addison  and  Bacon,  Latin 
verbs,  geometry,  entomology,  and  chemistry  ;  Reviews  and 
metaphysics — all  arrested  and  petrified  and  smothered  by 
the  fast-thickening  everyday  accession  of  actual  events, 
relative  anxieties  and  household  cares  and  vexations."  She 
wrote  poems  for  religious  magazines,  and  she  planned  a  com- 
plicated chart  of  ecclesiastical  history.  In  1840  she  began 
to  take  lessons  in  German.  Even  at  this  time  she  had  visions 
of  accomplishing  something  really  great  in  literature,  but  her 
natural  diffidence  too  often  threw  her  back  into  hopelessness. 

2K  505 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

In  the  last  year  of  her  life,  when  she  was  urged  to  write  her 
autobiography,  she  replied,  with  reference  to  these  early  years, 
*'  The  only  thing  I  should  care  to  dwell  on  would  be  the 
absolute  despair  I  suffered  from  of  ever  being  able  to  achieve 
anything.  No  one  could  ever  have  felt  greater  despair,  and  a 
knowledge  of  this  might  be  a  help  to  some  other  struggler.'* 

Toward  the  end  of  1840  Mr.  Robert  Evans  gave  up  his 
business  and  his  house  to  his  son  Isaac,  and  retired  with  his 
daughter  to  a  pleasant  semi-detached  house  in  Coventry. 
This  change  opened  an  entirely  new  society  to  Mary  Ann 
Evans.  In  Coventry  she  found  friends  who  could  sympathise 
with  her  intellectual  pursuits  and  ambitions.  Chief  among 
these  were  Mr.  Bray,  a  ribbon  manufacturer,  his  wife,  and  his 
wife's  brother  and  sister,  Charles  and  Sara  Hennell.  Under 
these  influences  her  intellectual  development  went  on  rapidly. 
Her  religious  opinions  underwent  a  change,  and  the  fervent 
Evangelical  churchwoman  gradually  took  up  the  attitude  of 
reverent  agnosticism  which  she  maintained  throughout  her 
life.  In  1843  she  undertook  her  first  serious  piece  of  literary 
work,  a  translation  of  Strauss's  Life  of  Jesus,  which  occupied 
her  for  two  years.  From  1846  to  1849  niost  of  her  time  was 
taken  up  in  attendance  on  her  father  during  his  last  illness. 
In  May  1849  he  died,  and  the  daughter  who,  for  more  than 
twelve  years  had  been  his  sole  household  companion  was  left 
alone.  *'  What  shall  I  be  without  my  father  ?  "  she  had 
written  to  her  friends,  the  Brays,  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
on  which  he  died,  "  It  will  seem  as  if  a  part  of  my  moral  nature 
were  gone."  She  was  worn  out,  both  physically  and  mentally, 
and  complete  rest  was  essential.  In  the  summer  of  1849  she 
started  with  the  Brays  on  a  Continental  tour,  and  when  they 
returned  home,  she  stayed  on  at  Geneva  for  another  eight 
months.  The  visit  was  in  every  way  beneficial  to  her.  She 
found  kind  and  congenial  friends,  and  returned  to  England 
in  March  1850,  refreshed  and  invigorated. 

Robert  Evans  had  left  his  daughter  enough  money  to 
supply  her  with  the  necessities  of  life,  but  her  ardent  and 
ambitious  nature  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  spend  her 
506 


SCENES    OF    CLERICAL    LIFE 

time  idly  or  uselessly.  She  determined  to  take  up  literary 
work  as  a  serious  profession,  and  in  September  1851  she  became 
sub-editor  of  the  Westminster  Review,  and  went  to  live  in 
London.  Her  position  now  brought  her  into  association 
with  the  leading  writers  of  the  day.  Froude,  Carlyle,  Grote, 
John  Stuart  Mill,  Harriet  Martineau  and  Herbert  Spencer 
were  among  those  who  w  ere  on  its  staff  of  contributors  or  were 
familiar  figures  at  its  office.  Miss  Evans  herself  contributed 
critical  articles  more  or  less  regularly,  and  did  a  vast  amount 
of  miscellaneous  literary  work. 

Toward  the  end  of  185 1,  she  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer  to  George  Henry  Lewes,  whose  influence  henceforward 
was  to  be  the  greatest  factor  in  her  life.  He  was  a  clever  and 
brilliant  writer  on  literary  and  philosophical  subjects,  and 
had  written  two  novels,  one  of  which.  Rose,  Blanche,  and  Violet, 
had  brought  him  considerable  reputation.  His  conversation 
was  as  brilliant  as  his  writing,  and  his  personality  was  ex- 
tremely attractive.  A  friendship  sprang  up  between  him  and 
Miss  Evans,  which  ripened  into  a  warm  attachment.  It  was 
impossible  for  them  to  marry  for  Lewes  had  already  a  wife 
from  whom  he  was  separated  under  circumstances  that  made 
divorce  impossible  ;  but  they  lived  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  on 
terms  of  the  closest  intimacy.  Miss  Evans  found  in  Lewes  the 
stay  and  support  which  she  needed.  He  shielded  her  from 
anxieties  in  every  possible  way,  guarded  her  interests,  cheered 
and  encouraged  her  in  her  fits  of  low  spirits,  and  gave  her  the 
warm,  sincere  praise  which  was  so  helpful  to  her  in  battling 
with  her  excessive  natural  diffidence.  But  the  greatest 
service  he  rendered  her  was  that  of  encouraging  her  to  her 
first  essay  in  fiction.  "  It  had  always,"  Miss  Evans  tells  us,  in 
the  account  she  gives  of  this  memorable  venture,  "  been  a 
vague  dream  of  mine  that  some  time  or  other  I  might  write  a 
novel ;  and  my  shadowy  conception  of  what  the  novel  was 
to  be,  varied,  of  course,  from  one  epoch  of  my  life  to  another. 
But  I  never  went  further  toward  the  actual  writing  of  the 
novel  than  an  introductory  chapter  describing  a  Staffordshire 
village,  and  the  life  of  the  neighbouring  farm-houses  ;   and  as 

507 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  years  passed  on  I  lost  any  hope  that  I  should  ever  be  able .; 
to  write  a  novel,  just  as  I  desponded  about  everything  else  in 
my  future  life.     I  always  thought  I  was  deficient  in  dramatic  „ 
power,  both  of  construction  and  dialogue,  but  I  felt  I  should  1 
be  at  my  ease  in  the  descriptive  parts  of  a  novel.    My  '  intro-  j 
ductory  chapter  *  was  pure    description,  though  there  were 
good  materials  in  it  for  dramatic  presentation."     This  chapter  *! 
she  one  day  read  over  to  Mr.  I^ewes.     He  saw  its  merit,  and 
urged  her  to  continue  the  work,  though  he  doubted,  as  she  did 
herself,  whether  her  dramatic  power  was  equal  to  novel- writing.  ■ 
After  long  hesitation  Miss  Evans  set  about  her  story,  en-  ; 
couraged  at  each  step  by  Lewes.     **  You  have  wit,  description,  ; 
and  philosophy,"  he  used  to  say,  "  those  go  a  good  way  toward  i 
the  production  of  a  novel.     It  is  worth  while  to  try  the  experi-  i 
ment." 

In  1853  Miss  Evans  resigned  her  position  on  the  Westminster,  : 
so  that  she  was  free  to  carry  on  her  independent  work.  She 
began  her  story  on  September  22,  1856,  and  finished  it  on  i 
November  5.  It  was  called  The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev.  \ 
Amos  Barton.  Mr.  Lewes  sent  it  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  \ 
saying  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  friend  who  had  never  before  • 
attempted  fiction,  that  it  was  to  be  the  first  of  a  series  of  ; 
sketches  illustrative  of  the  life  of  our  country  clergy  about  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago ;  and  if  Mr.  Blackwood  considered  I 
it  suitable  for  publication  in  his  magazine,  the  rest  of  the  I 
series,  which  would  be  entitled  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  would 
shortly  be  forthcoming.  The  story  was  accepted  and  the  ' 
first  part  published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  January  1857.  i 
"  Whatever  may  be  the  success  of  my  stories,"  their  author  I 
had  written  to  Mr.  Blackwood,  "  I  shall  be  resolute  in  pre-  \ 
serving  my  incognito — having  observed  that  a  nom  de  plume  ' 
secures  all  the  advantages  without  the  disagreeables  of  reputa- 
tion. Perhaps,  therefore,  it  will  be  well  to  give  you  my  pro-  ■ 
spective  name,  as  a  tub  to  throw  to  the  whale  in  case  of  curious  ' 
inquiries  ;  and  accordingly  I  subscribe  myself,  best  and  most  , 
sympathising  of  Editors,  yours  very  truly,  George  Eliot.  ; 

This  nom  de  plume  has  effectually  displaced  her  real  name  ; 

508  ! 

f 


SCENES    OF    CLERICAL    LIFE 

we  seldom  speak  of  Mary  Ann  Evans,  but  often  of  George 
Eliot.  George,  she  tells  us,  was  chosen  because  it  was  Mr. 
Lewes* s  Christian  name,  and  Eliot  because  it  was  "  a  good 
mouth-filling,  easily  pronounced  name."  The  tales  were  at 
once  successful ;  and  as  in  the  case  of  *  Currer  Bell '  curiosity 
with  regard  to  the  unknown  author  was  very  strongly  excited. 
Mr.  Carlyle,  Froude  and  Thackeray  thought  very  highly  of  the 
stories,  Dickens  was  enthusiastic  in  their  praise.  He  had 
never,  he  said,  seen  anything  to  equal  "  the  exquisite  truth  and 
delicacy  both  of  the  humour  and  pathos  of  these  stories."  His 
appreciation  gave  him  insight.  While  some  readers  were 
surmising  that  the  Scenes  must  have  been  written  by  a  clergy- 
man, others  attributing  them  to  Bulwer  Lytton,  and  a  few 
giving  credence  to  the  claim  made  by  a  Mr.  I^iggins,  of  Warwick- 
shire, Dickens  declared  that  the  author  must  be  a  woman  ; 
or,  if  not,  "  no  man  ever  before  had  the  art  of  making  himself 
so  like  a  woman  since  the  world  began." 

The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  which  began  the 
series  is  the  story  of  a  country  clergyman  with  a  small  income, 
a  large  family  and  an  almost  perfect  wife.  The  Rev.  Amos 
himself  is  in  no  way  remarkable  ;  he  is  one  of  those  "  common- 
place people  "  of  whom  George  Eliot  always  speaks  with  such 
wise  tenderness.  "  These  commonplace  people,"  she  says, 
" — many  of  them — bear  a  conscience,  and  have  felt  the  sublime 
prompting  to  do  the  painful  right ;  they  have  their  unspoken 
sorrows,  and  their  sacred  joys  ;  their  hearts  have  perhaps  gone 
out  toward  their  first-born,  and  they  have  mourned  over  the 
irreclaimable  dead.  Nay,  is  there  not  a  pathos  in  their  very 
insignificance — in  our  comparison  of  their  dim  and  narrow 
existence  with  the  glorious  possibilities  of  that  human  nature 
which  they  share  ?  Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeak- 
ably if  you  would  learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and 
the  pathos,  the  tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  ex- 
perience of  a  human  soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  grey 
eyes,  and  that  speaks  in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones." 

In  these  words,  written  in  her  first  story,  George  Eliot  tells 
us  what  is  to  be  the  aim  and  scope  of  all  her  novels,  if  we 

509 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

except  Romola  and  perhaps  Daniel  Deronda.  All  the  others  j 
deal  with  quite  ordinary  people,  to  whom  come  the  ordinary  ! 
joys,  sorrows  and  temptations  of  human  life ;  and  it  is  the  i 
author's  greatest  triumph  that  she  can  give  to  these  common-  j 
place  histories  not  only  interest  but  charm. 

Mr,  GilfiVs  Love  Story  followed  Amos  Barton,  and  the  third 
and  last  story  of  the  series,  Janet's  Repentance,  appeared  before  ' 
the  end  of  the  year.  The  plan  of  this  story  gives  an  oppor- 
tunity for  a  sketch  of  Milby  society  which  in  freshness,  spirit  : 
and  humour  is  only  equalled  by  that  even  more  noted  descrip-  i 
tion  of  the  society  of  St.  Oggs,  which  came  three  years  later  in  \ 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss.  The  characters  are  only  inferior  to  the  '\ 
Tullivers  and  Pullets,  the  Glegs,  the  Deanes  and  the  Guests  of  ; 
the  later  novel  as  slight  sketches  are  inferior  to  detailed  por-  \ 
traits.  All  the  gifts  which  made  George  Eliot  famous  are  to  | 
be  found  exemplified  in  these  early  stories.  The  moral  earnest-  ' 
ness,  the  ennobHng  conception  of  Ufe  and  its  duties,  the  ! 
deHghtful  humour  and  tender  sympathy  are  all  there ;  and  I 
if  we  have  no  Maggie  Tulliver,  no  Romola,  and  no  Mrs.  Poyser,  j 
the  reason  lies  in  lack  of  space  for  their  full  development,  not  \ 
in  lack  of  manifested  power.  ' 

The  scenes  of  the  stories  are  the  scenes  familiar  to  George  ! 
Eliot's  childhood.    Shepperton  Church,  which  she  "  began  to 
look  at  with  delight,  even  when  I  was  so  crude  a  member  of  the 
congregation  that  my  nurse  found  it  necessary  to  provide  for  \ 
the  reinforcement  of  my  devotional  patience   by   smuggling 
bread  and  butter  into  the  sacred  edifice ''  is  the  church  of  i 
Chilvers-Coton,  near  Nuneaton.     Cheveril  Manor  is  Arbury  \ 
Park,  where  lived  the  Newdigate  family,  to  whom  Robert  Evans  | 
acted  as  agent ;  Milby  is  Coventry.     Some  of  the  characters  ' 
are  drawn  with  such  fidelity  from  living  originals  that  they  ■ 
were  at  once  recognized  by  friends  and  neighbours,  to  George 
Eliot's  great  regret  and  embarrassment.    She  never  repeated  \ 
this  mistake  ;    with  further  artistic  development  came  the  j 
power  of  so  transforming  the  material  with  which  her  ex- 
perience supplied  her  as  to  produce  from  it  a  new  creation  I 
rather  than  a  copy. 
Sio 


SCENES    OF    CLERICAL    LIFE 

The  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  were  completed  October  9,  1857, 
and  on  October  22  Adam  Bede  was  begun.  The  pubHcation  of 
this  work  (1859)  secured  George  Eliot's  position  in  the  first  rank 
of  Victorian  novelists.  In  i860  came  the  Mill  on  the  Floss, 
followed  by  Silas Marner,  1861 ;  Romola,  1863 ;  Felix  Holt,  1866; 
Middlemarch,  1872  ;  Daniel  Deronda,  1876.  On  December  22, 
1880,  George  Eliot  died,  at  the  age  of  sixty-one. 


;ii 


CHAPTER  LI 

SARTOR    RESARTUS 

ON  a  breezy  upland  about  five  miles  from  Dumfries, 
there  stood  in  1828  the  farm  of  Craigenputtock — 
Anglicized,  the  Hill  of  Hawks.  All  round  it  lay 
great  stretches  of  undulating  meadow  land,  rising  in  front  to 
the  rolling  heather-covered  heights  of  the  Solway  hills.  There 
were  few  trees  to  be  seen,  except  here  and  there  a  belt  of  hardy 
firs,  for  Craigenputtock  lay  seven  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  and  the  bleak,  searching  winds  checked  all 
vegetable  growth.  The  house  itself  was  a  plain,  solid-looking 
structure,  white  with  rough  cast,  and  having  a  small,  bare 
porch  in  front.  Adjoining  it  stood  a  small  cottage,  and 
behind  lay  the  farm  buildings.  There  was  no  other  house  in 
sight,  and  no  road  leading  up  to  the  front  door  of  the  farm- 
house. Evidently  the  tenants  of  Craigenputtock  must  be 
content  to  live  in  entire  seclusion  from  the  world. 

To  this  home  there  came  in  the  spring  of  1828  Thomas 
Carlyle  and  his  brilliant,  delicate,  town-bred  wife.  They  had 
been  married  for  about  a  year  and  a  half,  and  during  that 
time  had  lived  in  a  small  house  in  Edinburgh.  Now,  straitened 
means  and  the  necessity  of  perfect  quiet  for  his  literary  work 
had  induced  Carlyle  to  migrate  to  his  wife's  inheritance,  the 
farm  of  Craigenputtock.  He  was  thirty-two  years  old  and 
had  already  made  for  himself  a  literary  reputation  by  means 
of  his  Life  of  Schiller  and  his  translation  of  Wilhelm  Meister, 
In  the  seclusion  of  this  country  home  he  hoped  to  accomplish 
some  higher  and  more  important  work. 

But  first  of  all  provision  must  be  made  for  the  expenses  of 
the  small  household.  A  little  money  went  a  long  way  at 
512 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 

Craigenputtock.  The  farm  which  was  managed  by  Carlyle's 
brother  Alexander,  supplied  milk  and  eggs  and  ham  and 
poultry  ;  from  Scotsbrig — about  a  day's  journey  to  the  west 
— the  home  of  his  mother  and  father^  came  wheat- flour  and 
oatmeal.  The  simple,  frugal  habits  of  the  Scottish  peasant 
still  clung  to  Carlyle,  and  his  wife  brought  to  the  management 
of  the  household  all  the  shrewd  common  sense  which  in  her, 
as  in  her  husband,  existed  side  by  side  with  many  strange  and 
brilliant  qualities.  Some  money,  however,  the  household 
must  have.  There  was  John  Carlyle,  another  brother,  study- 
ing for  a  doctor  at  Munich,  whose  expenses  must  be  paid. 
There  were  clothes  to  buy,  and  servants'  wages  to  be  found, 
and  such  improvements  made  to  the  old  house  as  would  render 
it  a  comfortable  habitation. 

So  Carlyle  set  to  work  on  reviews  and  magazine  articles 
which  at  this  time  editors  were  only  too  willing  to  take  from 
a  contributor  who  bid  fair  to  be  a  new  light  in  the  literary 
world.  The  peace  and  stillness  for  which,  among  the  streets 
of  Edinburgh,  he  had  so  bitterly  and  so  vainly  groaned  were 
now  his  in  full  measure.  To  the  little  library  where  he  sat  at 
work  "  with  desks,  and  books,  and  every  accoutrement  in 
fairest  order,"  the  sweet,  fresh  air  bore  only  pleasant  country 
sounds  subdued  to  a  faint  and  musical  murmur.  "  Shame 
befall  me,"  wrote  Carlyle,  "  if  I  ought  to  complain,  except  it 
be  of  my  own  stupidity  and  i^usillanimity."  His  words  show 
that  he  knew  and  deplored  the  nervous  irritability  of  disposition 
which  made  it  almost  impossible  for  him  not  to  '  complain,' 
even  under  the  most  favourable  circumstances.  He  had  hoped 
that  the  unquiet  tormenting  spirit  that  made  life  so  hard  for 
him  and  for  those  about  him,  had  been  left  behind  in  the  din 
of  the  city  ;  but  it  had  followed  him  to  his  country  home. 
There  were  many  small  privations  and  annoyances  to  be 
endured  at  Craigenputtock,  and  in  spite  of  the  splendid  courage 
with  which  he  met  great  trials,  Carlyle  was  unable  to  bear  with 
calmness  the  little  frets  of  everyday  life.  In  his  diary  there 
is  a  note  :  "  Finished  a  paper  on  Burns,  September  i6,  1828, 
at  this  Devil's  Den,  Craigenputtock."     The  entry  is  probably 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  | 

only  the  result  of  a  passing  mood,  yet  it  serves  to  show  that ; 
the  work  done  in  this  country  home  was  done  with  the  same  j 
stress  and  labour,  the  same  groaning  and  tribulation  as  that ; 
accomplished  in  town.     But  the  days  were  not  always  dark. : 
Sometimes  Carlyle  allows  that  the  house  is   "  substantial,  i 
comfortable,    and   even   half -elegant,'*    and   that    when   the 
planned  improvements  have  been  carried  out  this  hermitage! 
will  positively  become   a  very  tolerable  place."     In  these; 
times  of  comparative  peace  work  wxnt  on  more  smoothly.  \ 
Carlyle  varied  his  literary  labours  with  the  planting  of  potatoes  \ 
and  the  sticking  of  peas,  and  with  rides  on  his  *  red  chestnut 
Irish  doctor  *  the  good  horse  I^arry.     Even  when  winter  came  \ 
there  were  some  consolations,   though  Craigenputtock  was: 
cut  off  from  the  outside  world  save  when,  on  Saturday  evening,  ^ 
the  weekly  cart  came  struggling  up  from  Dumfries  bringing  \ 
various   household   necessaries   and   some   eagerly   expected' 
letters.     "  You  cannot  figure,"  wrote  Carlyle,  "  the  stillness 
of  these  moors  in  a  November  drizzle.    Nevertheless  I  walk 
often,  under  cloud  of  night,  in  good  Ecclefechan  clogs,  down 
as  far  as  Carstammon  Burn  .  .  .  conversing  with  the  void 
heaven  in  the  most  pleasant  fashion." 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Carlyle  too  was  realizing  the  drawbacks  ; 
of  this  pastoral  existence.    She  was  a  clever,  cultured  woman,  | 
but  had  given  up  her  own  ambitions  to  minister  to  the  genius  ; 
of  her  husband.    To  preserve  his  peace  and  well-being  had  \ 
become  her  aim  in  life.     Efficient  servants  would  not  come 
to  the  lonely  farmhouse,  and  the  rough  Scottish  lasses  who 
succeeded  one  another  as  '  maid-of-all  work '  could  not  keep  i 
the  house  in  that  spotless  order  and  serv^e  the  meals  with  that  \ 
dainty  cleanliness  which  both  Carlyle  and  his  wife  demanded.  ' 
It  followed  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  must  do  much  of  the  menial  j 
work  with  her  own  hands.    She  cooked,  and  cleaned,  and  ! 
sewed,  she  took  care  of  the  poultry  and  milked  the  cows  when  | 
the  byre-woman  was  out  of  the  way.    She  learned  to  bake 
bread  for  her  dyspeptic  husband,  who  could  not  eat  the  bread 
that  came  from  the  baker's  at  Dumfries.    She  even  scoured 
the  floors  and  polished  the  grates,  Carlyle,  with  his  pipe  in 


Thomas  Carlyle 


514 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 

his  mouth,  looking  approvingly  on.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  there  was  anything  exceptional  in  all  this.  In  his  boy- 
hood he  had  been  used  to  see  his  mother  serve  her  household 
after  the  same  fashion,  and  he  did  not  realize  how  great  was  the 
difference  between  her  and  his  delicate  wife.  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
on  her  part,  tried  not  to  complain,  satisfied  if,  with  all  her 
toil,  she  could  serve  the  husband,  who  in  spite  of  seeming 
roughness  and  indifference,  loved  her  so  well,  and  depended 
on  her  so  entirely. 

Friends  did  what  they  could  to  lighten  this  uncongenial 
solitude,  and  the  story  of  their  visits  makes  the  bright  spots  in 
a  dull,  monotonous  record.  Literary  work  progressed  more 
or  less  steadily,  according  to  the  mood  of  the  writer,  and  the 
money  for  present  necessities  was  gained,  with  a  little  to  put 
by.  But  as  time  went  on,  magazine  editors  began  to  grow 
somewhat  shy  of  articles  by  Thomas  Carlyle.  The  intensity 
of  his  convictions  and  the  fervency  with  which  he  preached 
a  gospel  that  made  no  concessions  to  the  prejudices  or  the 
weaknesses  of  his  readers  offended  many.  No  representations 
could  induce  him  to  court  popularity.  He  conceived  it  to  be 
his  duty  to  preach  to  a  corrupt  generation  against  the  cant, 
the  shams,  the  selfishness  and  the  frivolity  which  were  destroy- 
ing national  life.  The  "  terrible  earnestness  "  of  which  Jeffrey, 
editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  accused  him,  forbade  him  to 
soften  or  to  palliate  what  he  felt  to  be  the  truth.  Jeffrey  was 
a  true  and  attached  friend  both  to  Carlyle  and  his  wife,  who 
refused  to  be  offended  by  repeated  rebuffs,  and  who  again  and 
again  essayed  the  difficult  task  of  helping  a  man  whose  irritable 
pride  took  offence  at  the  most  kindly  meant  offers.  He,  like 
other  editors,  recognized  the  extraordinary  talents  of  this  self- 
exiled  hermit  of  Craigenputtock,  and  tried  in  vain  to  induce  him 
to  adopt  the  more  conciUatory  tone  which  was  necessar>^  to 
make  his  work  acceptable  to  the  pubhc.  But  to  Carlyle's  stern 
integrity  all  such  representations  savoured  of  temptations 
from  the  Evil  One,  and  no  considerations  of  fortune  or  even  of 
daily  bread,  could  lead  him  to  lower  the  lofty  standard  he  had 
set  up. 

SIS 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Among  all  these  discouragements  some  of  his  finest  and 
most  lasting  work  was  accomplished.  On  October  28,  1830, 
he  made  this  entry  in  his  journal :  "  Written  a  strange  piece 
'  On  Clothes/  Know  not  what  will  come  of  it/*.  .  .  "  Sent 
away  the  *  Clothes/  of  which  I  could  make  a  kind  of  book,  but 
cannot  afford  it."  This  article  on  clothes  was  the  germ  which 
afterward  developed  into  Sartor  Resartus.  It  found  no 
favour  with  the  editors  to  whom  it  was  submitted.  An 
entry  in  the  journal  under  the  date  February  7,  1831,  says, 
"  Sent  to  Jack  "  (his  brother)  "  to  hberate  my  *  Teufelsdrockh  ' 
from  editorial  durance  in  I^ondon,  and  am  seriously  thinking 
to  make  a  book  of  it.  The  thing  is  not  right — not  art;  yet 
perhaps  a  nearer  approach  to  art  than  I  have  yet  made.  We 
ought  to  try." 

The  spring  of  183 1  saw  the  Carlyles  in  dire  straits  for  money. 
A  History  of  German  Literature  on  which  much  precious  time 
had  been  spent  could  find  no  publisher  ;  payment  for  work 
that  had  been  accepted  came  in  only  after  long  delay.  There 
was  much  bargaining  with  editors  and  humiliating  refusals  of 
work,  which  fretted  Carlyle's  proud,  impatient  spirit  into  a 
state  of  fierce  irritability.  The  problem  of  how  the  expenses 
of  the  frugal  household  were  to  be  met  became  an  increasingly 
serious  one  ;  yet,  all  the  time,  Carlyle  was  sending  help  to  the 
very  utmost  his  means  permitted,  to  two  brothers  whose 
circumstances  were  even  worse  than  his  own,  and  was  haughtily 
refusing  the  help  which  Jeffrey,  with  the  utmost  delicacy, 
repeatedly  offered  to  him.  It  was  in  the  turmoil  of  spirit  which 
all  these  circumstances  combined  to  produce  that  Sartor 
Resartus  was  written.  It  bears  traces  of  the  disturbance  of 
its  author's  mind  in  its  tumultuous,  vehement  style.  Words 
and  sentences  are  piled  upon  one  another  without  any  attempt 
at  calm,  orderly  arrangement.  It  w^as  written  straight  from 
Carlyle's  heart,  and  more  than  any  other  of  his  books  it  reveals 
his  strange  and  fascinating  personality.  In  it  he  indulged  to 
the  utmost  the  wild  and  wilful  humour  which  led  him  to  clothe 
his  thoughts  in  language  that  seemed  to  the  ordinary  man 
extravagant  and  unintelligible.     He  himself  was  fully  conscious 

S16 


SARTOR  RESARTUS 
of  the  strange,  unusual  character  of  his  work.  "  I  am  leading 
the  stillest  life/'  he  wrote  to  his  brother,  **  musing  amid  the 
pale  sunshine,  or  rude  winds  of  October  Tire  the  Trees,  when 
I  go  walking  in  this  almost  ghastl}^  solitude,  and  for  the  rest 
writing  with  impetuosity.  .  .  .  What  I  am  writing  at  is  the 
strangest  of  all  things.  A  very  singular  piece,  I  assure  you.  It 
glances  from  heaven  to  earth  and  back  again,  in  a  strange, 
satirical  frenzy,  whether  fine  or  not  remains  to  be  seen." 

The  idea  upon  which  the  book  is  founded  is  that  all  customs, 
institutions,  creeds,  fashions  and  ceremonies  are  simply  the 
clothes  in  which  man  dresses  his  ideas  and  beliefs,  his  loves 
and  his  hates,  so  that  he  is  able  to  live  peaceably  and  decently 
as  a  member  of  a  civilized  society.  It  is  not  an  entirely 
original  notion.  Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub  contains  a  foreshadowing 
of  it,  and  critics  have  pointed  out,  also,  Carlyle's  indebtedness 
to  various  German  authors.  But  the  marvellous  handling 
of  the  subject  gives  the  book  a  claim  to  originality  in  the  highest 
sense  of  that  much  misused  word.  It  purports  to  be  founded 
on  the  work  of  a  German  professor,  one  Herr  Diogenes  Teufels- 
drockh  of  Weissnichtwo  (Know-not-where)  author  of  a  book 
entitled  Clothes,  their  Origin  and  Influence,  and  the  opening 
chapters  give,  with  all  the  apparatus  of  mystification  that 
Carlyle  loved,  an  account  of  the  way  in  which  the  necessary 
manuscript  was  obtained  through  the  medium  of  Herr  Hof  rathe 
Hanschnecke  (Grasshopper).  The  manuscript  is  contained 
in  six  paper  bags,  and  consists  of  innumerable  scraps  of  paper 
without  order,  arrangement  or  date.  The  editor  imagines 
himself  set  down  to  the  task  of  sorting,  arranging,  and  copying 
these  fragments,  and  evolving  from  them  a  biography  of 
Herr  Teufelsdrockh  and  a  summary  of  his  Philosophy  of 
Clothes. 

This  preliminary  explanation  occupies  the  greater  part  of 
the  first  book.  The  second  book  is  mainly  biographical,  and 
into  his  account  of  the  life  of  the  mythical  German  professor, 
Carlyle  has  woven  passages  from  his  own  history.  "  I^et  me 
not  quarrel  with  my  upbringing,"  he  says,  in  one  such  passage. 
"  It  was  rigorous,  too  frugal,  compressively  secluded,  every 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

way  unscientific  ;  yet  in  that  very  strictness  and  domestic 
solitude  might  there  not  lie  the  root  of  deeper  earnestness,  of 
the  stem  from  which  all  noble  fruit  must  grow  ?  Above  all, 
how  unskilful  soever,  it  was  loving,  it  was  well-meant,  honest ; 
whereby  every  deficiency  was  helped.  My  kind  mother  .  .  . 
did  me  one  altogether  invaluable  service  ;  she  taught  me,  less 
indeed  by  word  than  by  act  and  daily  reverent  look  and 
habitude,  her  own  simple  version  of  the  Christian  faith.'* 
This  is  a  faithful  picture  of  the  frugal,  pious  home  in  which 
Carlyle  was  brought  up,  and  of  the  peasant-mother  whom, 
to  the  end  of  his  life,  he  reverenced  and  loved. 

By  and  by  Teufelsdrockh  went  to  school,  but  of  that  in- 
significant portion  of  his  education  almost  no  notice,  he  says, 
need  be  taken.  **  I  learned  what  others  learn ;  and  kept  it 
stored  by  in  a  corner  of  my  head,  seeing  as  yet  no  manner  of 
use  in  it.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  what  printed  thing  whatsoever  I 
could  meet  with  I  read."  Later,  he  tells  of  his  life  at  the 
University.  "  Had  you  anywhere  in  Crim  Tartary  walled 
in  a  square  enclosure  ;  furnished  it  with  a  small,  ill-chosen 
Library ;  and  then  turned  loose  into  it  eleven  hundred 
Christian  striplings,  to  tumble  about  as  they  listed  from  three 
to  seven  years  :  certain  persons  under  the  title  of  Professors 
being  stationed  at  the  gates  to  declare  aloud  that  it  was  a 
University,  and  exact  considerable  admission  fees — you  had, 
not  indeed  in  mechanical  structure,  yet  in  spirit  and  result, 
some  imperfect  resemblance  of  our  High  Seminary."  This 
description  agrees  substantially  with  Carlyle's  recorded  opinion 
of  Edinburgh  University,  of  which  he  was  a  student  from 
1809-18 14 — ^the  years  which  followed  the  brilliant  period  of 
which  Walter  Scott  has  given  such  a  very  different  account. 

Teufelsdrockh' s  love  passages  with  '  Blumine  '  are  probably 
founded  upon  Carlyle's  recollections  of  his  own  early  love, 
Margaret  Gordon,  whom  he  met  while  he  held  the  post  of 
mathematical  tutor  at  Annan,  where  he  went  upon  leaving  the 
University.  Like  Teufelsdrockh' s,  his  suit  was  unsuccessful, 
and  his  weariness  and  disappointment,  his  spiritual  conflicts 
and  tormenting  doubts  at  this  period  of  his  life  may  well  have 

518 


I 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 

furnished  the  material  for  the  chapters  on  the  Sorrows  of 
Teufelsdrockh  and  The  Everlasting  No.  But  the  most  striking 
autobiographical  passage  is  that  which  describes  Teufelsdrockh' s 
"  Spiritual  New  Birth,"  which  has  its  counterpart  in  an  ex- 
perience of  Carlyle  in  June  1821,  to  which  he  always  looked 
as  a  turning-point  in  his  life.  "  Full  of  such  humour,  and 
perhaps  the  miserablest  man  in  the  whole  French  Capital  or 
Suburbs,  was  I,  one  sultry  Dogday,  after  much  perambula- 
tion, toiling  along  the  dirty  little  Rue  Saint  Thomas  de  TEnfer 
.  .  .  when,  all  at  once,  there  rose  a  Thought  in  me,  and  I 
asked  myself  :  *  What  art  thou  afraid  of  ?  Wherefore,  like  a 
coward,  dost  thou  for  ever  pip  and  whimper,  and  go  cowering 
and  trembling  ?  Despicable  biped  !  what  is  the  sum-total  of 
the  worst  that  lies  before  thee  !  Death  ?  Well,  Death  :  and 
say  the  pangs  of  Tophet  too,  and  all  that  the  Devil  and  Man 
may,  will  or  can  do  against  thee  !  Hast  thou  not  a  heart ; 
canst  thou  not  suffer  whatsoever  it  be  ;  and,  as  a  Child  of 
Freedom,  though  outcast,  trample  Tophet  itself  under  thy 
feet,  while  it  consumes  thee  ?  Let  it  come,  then  ;  I  will  meet 
it  and  defy  it !  *  And  as  I  so  thought,  there  rushed  like  a 
stream  of  fire  over  my  whole  soul ;  and  I  shook  base  Fear 
away  from  me  forever.  I  was  strong,  and  of  unknown  strength ; 
a  spirit,  almost  a  god.  Ever  from  that  time,  the  temper  of 
my  misery  was  changed  ;  not  Fear  or  whining  Sorrow  was 
it,  but  Indignation  and  grim  fire-eyed  Defiance." 

The  third  book  of  Sartor  Resartus  deals  exclusively  with  the 
principles  of  the  Clothes  Philosophy.  It  is  impossible  here 
to  give  even  a  sketch  of  the  contents  of  this  section.  We  will 
quote  only  one  passage  which  may  give  some  idea  of  the  tone 
of  the  whole  :  "  But  deepest  of  all  illusory  Appearances,  for 
hiding  Wonder,  as  for  many  other  ends,  are  your  two  grand 
fundamental  world-enveloping  Appearances,  Space  and  Time. 
These,  as  spun  and  woven  for  us  from  before  Birth  itself,  to 
clothe  our  celestial  ME  for  dwelling  here,  and  yet  to  blind  it, — 
lie  all-embracing,  as  the  universal  canvas,  or  warp  and  woof, 
whereby  all  minor  Illusions,  in  this  Phantasm  Existence,  weave 
and  paint  themselves.    In  vain,  while  here  on  Earth,  shall  you 

519 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

endeavour  to  strip  them  off ;  you  can,  at  best,  but  rend  them  -^ 
asunder  for  moments,  and  look  through."  ] 

This  then  was  the  book  in  which  Carlyle  inscribed,  with  ever-  ^ 
rising  fervour  and  tumultuous  fluency  the  most  cherished 
convictions  of  his  soul.  It  was  finished  by  the  end  of  July  ; 
and  given  to  the  critic — his  wife — whose  opinion  he  most 
valued,  and  whose  judgment  he  had  proved  to  be  reliable.  *'  It  \ 
is  a  work  of  genius,  dear,"  she  said,  when  she  had  read  the  last  j 
page,  and,  encouraged  by  this  verdict,  Carlyle  resolved  to  i 
take  the  book  up  to  London  himself,  and  try  to  find  a  publisher.  J 
For  this  great  purpose  he  managed  to  bring  himself  to  accept  j 
a  loan  of  £50  from  Jeffrey,  and  on  August  9, 1831,  arrived  in  > 
London.  Next  day  he  visited  the  publishers,  but  found  no  i 
one  ready  to  risk  the  production  of  a  book  so  little  likely  to  | 
please  the  general  public.  Day  after  day  he  went  his  weary  j 
round,  but  with  no  result.  The  book  was  returned  on  his  f 
hands,  and  at  last  it  became  clear  to  him  that,  for  this  time  at  ^ 
least.  Sartor  Resartus  could  find  no  publisher.  i 

Discouraged,  but  still  convinced  of  the  true  worth  of  the  > 
book,  Carlyle  put  it  for  a  time  aside,  and  turned  resolutely  { 
once  more  to  the  writing  of  magazine  articles.  That  winter  he  < 
spent  in  London,  where  his  wife  joined  him  on  Oc^ber  i.  ( 
They  soon  attracted  a  circle  of  friends,  drawn  from  the  most  ] 
brilliant  literary  society  of  London,  and  the  next  six  months  ] 
were  passed  pleasantly  and  profitably.  The  work  that  Carlyle  ; 
did  that  winter  ranks  among  his  very  best,  and  although  he 
still  refused  to  make  any  concessions  to  public  taste,  he  < 
managed  to  gain  a  small  circle  of  intellectual  readers  who  ' 
became  his  loyal  and  constant  supporters.  The  financial  j 
prospect  cleared,  and  consequently  the  health  and  spirits  of  i 
the  much-tried  pair  improved. 

By  April  1832  they  were  back  at  Craigenputtock,  to  the 
dreary  solitude  which  to  both  of  them  had  now  become  hateful. 
But  there  seemed  little  prospect  of  change.  The  results  of 
Carlyle's  literary  work  just  kept  the  household  going,  but 
gave  them  no  encouragement  to  increase  their  expenses.  In 
the  summer  of  1833  the  editor  of  Fraser's  Magazine  consented 
520 


to  produce  Sartor  Resartus  in  ten  successive  instalments.  But 
the  venture  was  an  unlucky  one.  The  first  instalment  was 
received  with  strong  disapproval  by  the  public.  Who  but 
a  madman,  they  asked,  could  have  written  such  a  chaotic, 
unintelligible,  ridiculous  medley.  Subscribers  threatened  to 
withdraw  their  support  if  the  magazine  continued  to  publish 
such  stuff.  Only  here  and  there  a  clear-sighted  reader  dis- 
cerned the  real  meaning  and  beauty  of  the  work.  In  America 
only  did  it  win  even  a  small  measure  of  popularity.  There  an 
edition  of  the  complete  book  was  printed  from  the  pages  of 
Frasers,  and  chiefly  through  the  efforts  of  Emerson,  had  a 
sufficient  sale  to  gain,  in  all,  profits  of  ;f400  for  its  writer. 

The  winter  of  1833-34  passed  heavily,  and  in  the  spring  the 
Carlyles  resolved  to  take  a  bold  step,  give  up  their  home  at 
Craigenputtock  and  estabhsh  themselves  in  London.  Their 
reserve  fund  amounted  to  between  two  and  three  hundred 
pounds — all  that  stood  between  them  and  want.  The  venture 
was  a  desperate  one,  but  it  was  undertaken  with  courage  and 
resolution.  June  1834  saw  them  settled  at  Cheyne  Row, 
Chelsea,  with  Leigh  Hunt  for  a  neighbour.  Here  Carlyle  set 
to  work  upon  his  new  book  on  the  French  Revolution.  Sartor 
Resartus  had  frightened  all  the  magazine  editors  so  much 
that  very  little  could  be  hoped  from  the  writing  of  articles.  If 
this  new  work  did  not  succeed  there  was  nothing  for  it,  Carlyle 
thought,  but  to  give  up  literature  entirely,  and  cross  the 
Atlantic  to  America,  with  a  spade  and  a  pick. 

But  happily  this  desperate  expedient  did  not  become 
necessary.  Self-denial  and  careful  management  enabled  the 
little  household  to  be  carried  on  until,  in  1837,  "^^^  French 
Revolution  was  finished  and  pubUshed.  The  success  of  this 
book  was  as  complete  as  had  been  the  failure  of  Sartor  Resartus. 
Carlyle  became  a  literary  lion  sought  after  by  the  fashionable 
world,  and  flattered  by  great  ladies.  A  little  group  of  en- 
thusiastic disciples  gathered  round  him — among  them  James 
Anthony  Froude,  who  afterward  became  his  biographer,  and 
the  young  novelist,  Charles  Dickens,  fresh  from  the  success  of 
Pickwick.    In  1838  the  proprietors  of  Fraser's  Magazine  took 

2L  521 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

courage,  and  published  Sartor  Resartus  as  a  separate  book. , 
It  had  a  moderate,  but  steadily  increasing  sale.  Forty-three 
years  later,  a  few  months  before  Carlyle's  death,  a  cheap  edition 
was  issued,  and  30,000  copies  were  sold  within  a  few  weeks.  | 
The  remaining  years  of  Carlyle's  life  are  marked  mainly  by  i 
his  literary  productions.  He  was  free  from  money  worries,  i 
and  was  recognized  as  the  prophet  of  a  new  gospel.  His  life  ' 
was  not  a  happy  one,  for  his  own  unfortunate  temperament  , 
caused  him  to  suffer  a  martyrdom  of  self -torment ;  and  chronic  i 
dyspepsia  added  to  his  troubles.  But  in  spite  of  these  things  i 
his  record  of  work  is  a  fine  one.  A  series  of  political  tracts 
showed  his  interest  in  the  burning  questions  of  the  day.  His  ' 
Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell  was  published  in  1845, ,; 
and  Frederick  the  Great  occupied  him  from  1851  to  1865.  In  | 
1866  came  the  terribly  sudden  death  of  Mrs.  Carlyle,  which  \ 
saddened  the  rest  of  his  life.  His  last  years  were  given  to  | 
the  writing  of  his  Reminiscences.  He  died  on  February  5, 
1 88 1.  There  was  a  general  wish  on  the  part  of  the  public  that  ■ 
he  should  be  given  a  place  in  Westminster  Abbey,  but  he  j 
himself  had  desired  to  rest  among  the  kinsfolk  to  whom  he  had  ! 
been  so  loyally  and  so  tenderly  attached,  and  he  was  buried  \ 
in  the  churchyard  of  remote  Ecclefechan. 


522 


CHAPTER  LII 

MODERN   PAINTERS 

)HN  RUSKIN  stands  by  the  side  of  Thomas  Carlyle  as 
an  accredited  prophet  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Each 
of  these  men  had  a  gospel  to  preach  and  preached  it 
with  a  fervour  that  often  became  extravagance  ;  with  much 
denunciation  of  those  who  did  not  agree  with  its  special  tenets, 
with  many  inconsistencies,  exaggerations,  even  absurdities. 
But  these  things  were  the  almost  necessary  accompaniments 
of  the  intense  conviction  which  possessed  both  Carlyle  and 
Ruskin  of  the  truth  and  the  urgency  of  their  gospel,  and  they 
fail  altogether  to  obscure  the  great  and  noble  qualities  either 
of  the  men  or  of  their  writings.  The  message  of  both  these 
latter-day  prophets  is  substantially  the  same  :  England  is 
too  much  absorbed  in  money-getting  and  money-spending, 
and  has  sunk  into  a  condition  in  which  she  is  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish between  what  is  true  and  lovely,  and  what  is  false 
and  hateful ;  men  must  rouse  up,  and  cast  away  the  shams 
they  have  held  so  long,  must  follow,  though  through  labour 
and  sorrow,  the  clear  shining  of  truth.  But  their  manner  of 
approaching  and  presenting  their  gospel  differs  almost  as 
widely  as  the  free,  hardy  childhood  of  Thomas  Carlyle  differs 
from  the  hot-house  rearing  of  John  Ruskin.  Carlyle  ripened 
late,  and  produced  no  great  original  work  until  he  was  nearly 
thirty-seven  years  old,  but  the  extraordinary  precocity  of 
Ruskin  arouses  the  same  feeling  of  wonder,  almost  of  alarm, 
as  would  be  experienced  on  seeing  fully  formed  apples  hanging 
on  a  tree,  side  by  side  with  the  pink- and- white  blossoms  of 
spring-time. 

John  Ruskin  was,  from  his  earliest  years,  destined  and 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

trained  for  greatness.  His  father  was  a  wealthy  wine-  | 
merchant,  a  man  of  culture  and  education ;  his  mother  was  hand-  j 
some,  energetic,  and  deeply  religious.  John,  their  only  child,  ^ 
was  strictly  brought  up,  according  to  the  rigid,  narrow  rule  of  ] 
the  Puritanic  sect  to  which  his  mother  belonged.  The  home  j 
was  luxurious,  too  luxurious,  he  concluded,  when  he  thought ' 
about  it  in  after  years,  but  the  boy  was  allowed  no  childish  ' 
indulgences.  Sunday  especially  was  a  day  of  gloom,  with  , 
its  dinner  of  cold  mutton,  its  long  services,  its  indefinable  air  ^ 
of  austerity  and  aloofness  from  all  ordinary  human  affairs.  "  A  j 
lurid  shade,"  Ruskin  tells  us,  "  was  cast  over  Friday  and  | 
Saturday  by  the  horrible  sense  that  Sunday  was  coming  and  I 
was  inevitable.'*  Every  day  he  read  aloud  to  his  mother  a  : 
chapter  out  of  the  Bible,  hard  words  and  genealogies  included,  i 
He  was  whipped  when  he  was  "  naughty  *' — and  in  his  mother's  \ 
stern  code  many  things  ranked  as  "  naughty  "  which  were  ; 
simply  natural.  He  had  no  playfellows  or  companions,  and  ; 
was  carefully  secluded  from  the  world  without,  whose  very  air,  j 
his  mother  deemed  would  be  contamination  to  this  chosen  \ 
vessel.  He  was  watched  and  tended,  guided,  chidden  and  1 
instructed  with  such  unceasing  and  anxious  care  that  it  is  { 
small  wonder  he  learned  to  think  of  himself  as  the  centre  of  his  \ 
little  Universe.  His  spiritual  and  intellectual  growth  was  \ 
stimulated  in  every  possible  way  and  he  responded  with  the  i 
eager  readiness  of  a  quick  and  supersensitive  nature.  Before  ] 
he  was  four  he  could  read  and  write  fluently  and  correctly.  At  { 
seven  he  wrote  an  original  story  and  illustrated  it  with  his  own  \ 
drawings ;  at  nine  he  composed  a  poem  entitled  Eudosia  :  a  | 
Poem  on  the  Universe.  He  described  himself  in  after  years  as  \ 
having  led  at  this  time  "  a  very  small,  perky,  contented,  con-  ''. 
ceited  Cock- Robinson-Crusoe  sort  of  life "  in  the  house  at  \ 
Heme  Hill  to  which  the  family  had  removed  when  John  Ruskin  i 
the  younger  was  four  years  old.  Home  life  was  varied  by  \ 
long  and  frequent  tours  through  England,  Scotland,  France,  \ 
Belgium  and  Switzerland.  These  journeys  which  his  father  \ 
undertook  periodically  for  business  purposes,  were  made  in  a  j 
carriage  or  post-chaise,  so  that  the  three — for  Mrs.  Ruskin  i 

524  J 


I^V         MODERN    PAINTERS 

was  always  one  of  the  party — had  exceptional  opportunities  of 
observing  all  the  features  of  the  surrounding  country.  This 
in  itself  was  an  education  to  the  impressionable  and  beauty- 
loving  boy.  When  he  was  fourteen  he  first  saw  the  Alps, 
which  all  his  life  long  he  loved  so  passionately  and  wrote  of 
so  eloquently.  "  I  went  down  that  evening  from  the  garden- 
terrace  of  Schaffhausen/'  he  says,  "  with  my  destiny  fixed  in 
all  of  it  that  was  to  be  sacred  and  useful.  To  that  terrace 
and  the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  my  heart  and  faith  return 
to  this  day,  in  every  impulse  that  is  yet  nobly  alive  in  them, 
and  every  thought  that  has  in  it  help  or  peace." 

When  he  was  at  home  he  had  the  best  masters  that  could 
be  obtained  for  various  educational  subjects,  and  for  a  short 
time  he  attended  a  day-school.  But  he  never  had  any  real 
school  training,  such  as  falls  to  the  lot  of  most  English  boys, 
and  the  watchful  care  of  his  parents  never  relaxed.  Each 
new  sign  of  genius  in  their  remarkable  son  was  hailed  with 
such  intense  satisfaction  as  urged  him  on  to  further  efforts. 
He  produced  between  his  seventh  and  his  eighteenth  year 
a  marvellous  quantity  of  poetry  ;  over  ten  thousand  lines 
have  been  preserved  and  printed  in  the  two  volumes  of  selec- 
tions from  his  early  works.  None  of  the  many  poems  show 
any  touch  of  real  poetic  genius,  but  the  metre  is  surprisingly 
correct  and  the  boy's  facility  in  imitating  the  various  poets — 
Pope,  Byron,  Shelley,  Scott,  Wordsworth — shows  something 
more  than  a  mere  trick  of  versification. 

His  earUest  prose  work  is  of  the  same  character  as  his 
poetry — correct,  but  undistinguished.  When  he  was  fifteen 
three  of  his  pieces  were  printed  in  lyondon's  Magazine  of 
Natural  History,  the  surprising  subjects  of  which  are,  the 
geologic  strata  of  Mt.  Blanc,  the  perforation  of  a  leaden  pipe 
by  rats,  the  causes  of  the  colour  of  Rhine-water.  In  1837  the 
youth  of  eighteen,  who  had  seen  many  of  the  world's  most 
famous  pictures,  and  had  already  shown  some  of  that  love- 
directed  imderstanding  of  art  which  distinguished  him  in  after 
years,  was  roused  to  indignation  by  an  attack  on  Turner's 
pictures,  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,    In  the  heat  of  his  wrath  he 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

sat  down  and  wrote  a  vehement  reply,  defending  the  painter, 
and  he  submitted  this  to  Turner  himself  before  sending  it 
to  the  editor  of  Blackwood.     The  great  painter  was  probably 
surprised  and  amused  at  the  effusion,  but  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  anxious  that  the  enthusiastic  defence  of  his 
young  admirer  should  be  made  public,  and  contented  himself, 
with  forwarding  the  paper  to  the  purchaser  of  the  picture — j 
Juliet  at  Venice — ^which  had  been  the  chief  object  of  the  attack,  j 
This  early  effort  is  valuable  as  being  the  germ  of  Modern\ 
Painters.  \ 

In  1836  Ruskin  went  up  to  Oxford  as  a  gentleman  commoner,  j 
At  this  time  he  was  a  tall  delicate  lad  of  seventeen,  withi 
bright,  expressive  blue  eyes  set  under  strongly  marked  brows,  i 
curling  brown  hair,  and  an  air  of  extreme,  almost  nervous; 
sensibility.  He  was  excessively  shy,  in  spite  of  the  '  fountain  ] 
of  pure  conceit '  which  he  tells  us  bubbled  in  his  heart ;  j 
awkward  and  unused  to  society  in  spite  of  all  his  travels. 
At  first  he  was  laughed  at  as  a  *  girl,'  but  soon  his  really  fine 
qualities  were  recognized  by  a  few  of  his  fellows,  and  be  became  1 
popular  among  those  whose  liking  was  best  worth  having. ; 
His  mother's  anxious  care  did  not  relax  even  now  that  her  boy : 
was  approaching  manhood.  She  left  her  beautiful  home,  and  I 
took  lodgings  in  Oxford  during  term  time  ;  and  every  evening : 
John  dutifully  visited  and  took  tea  with  her. 

His  fond  parents,  he  tells  us,  had  made  up  their  minds  that , 
he  should  "  take  all  the  prizes  every  year,  and  a  double  first ! 
to  finish  with  ;  marry  I^ady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  ;  write  poetry  j 
as  good  as  Byron's,  only  pious  ;  preach  sermons  as  good  as ; 
Bossuet's,  only  Protestant ;  be  made,  at  forty.  Bishop  of 
Winchester,  and,  at  fifty.  Primate  of  England."  But  un- , 
fortunately  Ruskin  failed  to  fulfil  any  of  these  expectations.  1 
At  Oxford  he  won  the  Newdigate  prize  for  English  verse,  and, 
in  spite  of  an  absence  of  nearly  a  year  and  a  half,  owing  to  a  ] 
terrible  breakdown  in  health,  did  so  well  in  his  Final  Examina- 1 
tion  that  he  was  awarded  an  honorary  Fourth  Class.  He  gained  . 
no  other  honours,  and,  on  leaving  the  University  he  cruelly , 
disappointed  his  parents  by  refusing  to  become  a  minister  of  \ 
526  \ 


John  Ruskin 
From  a  Photograph  by  Fredk.  HoUyer 


526 


Ip  MODERN    PAINTERS 

the  Church,  and  so  set  out  toward  the  Primacy.  His  views 
as  to  his  future  life  were  by  no  means  clear,  and  for  a  time  he 
dreamed  happily  among  his  pictures  and  his  books,  and  best 
of  all,  made  journeys  to  his  beloved  Alps,  where,  surrounded 
by  the  clouds  and  mountains  that  were  *  life  to  him,'  he 
gradually  fitted  himself  for  the  work  that  was  soon  to  present 
itself. 

His  boyish  admiration  of  Turner  had  increased  through  a 
fuller  understanding  of  the  great  painter's  subjects  and 
methods.  He  possessed,  by  the  time  he  was  twenty-one, 
three  great  *  Turners '  given  him  by  his  father,  and  had 
thus  begun  the  collection  of  pictures  which  was  such  a  joy 
to  him  throughout  his  life.  He  studied  also  all  the  painter's 
accessible  works,  and  in  June  1840  was  introduced  to  the 
great  man  himself.  "  I  found  him,"  says  Ruskin,  "  a  some- 
what eccentric,  keen-mannered,  matter-of-fact,  English- 
minded  gentleman  ;  good-natured  evidently,  bad-tempered 
evidently,  hating  humbug  of  all  sorts,  shrewd,  perhaps  a  little 
selfish,  highly  intellectual,  the  powers  of  the  mind  not  brought 
out  with  any  delight  in  their  manifestation,  or  intention  of 
display,  but  flashing  out  occasionally  in  a  word  or  a  look." 
This  shrewd  little  character  sketch  shows  that  Ruskin's 
enthusiasm  for  Turner's  paintings  did  not  proceed  from  blind 
hero-worship  but  from  a  real  and  intelligent  appreciation 
of  the  works  themselves. 

The  year  1841  was  spent  in  somewhat  desultory  art  study 
and  literary  work.  The  spring  and  summer  of  1842  were 
passed  in  Switzerland,  and,  on  returning  home  Ruskin  began  the 
first  volume  of  Modern  Painters.  His  father  took  the  greatest 
interest  in  the  progress  of  the  work,  and  early  realized  that 
it  was  going  to  be  something  worthy  of  the  son  of  whom  he 
had  formed  such  high  hopes.  **  The  work,"  Ruskin  said, 
in  his  Preface  to  the  first  edition,  "  originated  in  indignation 
at  the  shallow  and  false  criticisms  of  the  periodicals  of  the  day 
on  the  works  of  the  great  living  artist  to  whom  it  principally 
refers.  It  was  intended  to  be  a  short  pamphlet,  reprobating 
the  manner  and  style  of  these  critiques,  and  pointing  out  their 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  \ 

perilous  tendency,  as  guides  of  public  feeling.  But,  as  point  \ 
after  point  presented  itself  for  demonstration,  I  found  myself  ' 
compelled  to  amplify  what  was  at  first  a  letter  to  the  editor  i 
of  a  Review,  into  something  very  like  a  treatise  on  art,  to  which  \ 
I  was  obliged  to  give  the  more  consistency  and  completeness  j 
because  it  advocated  opinions  which,  to  the  ordinary  con-  '■ 
noisseur,  will  sound  heretical.  I  now  scarcely  know  whether  : 
I  should  announce  it  as  an  Essay  on  lyandscape  Painting,  and  < 
apologize  for  its  frequent  reference  to  the  works  of  a  particular  \ 
master ;  or,  announcing  it  as  a  critique  on  particular  works,  ; 
apologize  for  its  lengthy  discussion  of  general  principles.*'  The  ; 
writer  first  sets  out  to  answer  the  question  as  to  what  is  meant  ; 
by  true  greatness  in  art,  and  arrives  at  the  definition  "  the 
greatest  picture  is  that  which  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  ■ 
spectator  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest  ideas.'*  He  , 
proceeds  to  consider  "  all  the  sources  of  pleasure,  or  of  any  \ 
other  good,  to  be  derived  from  works  of  art,"  and  sets  these  ; 
out  under  five  heads,  viz.,  ideas  of  Power,  ideas  of  Imitation,  I 
ideas  of  Truth,  ideas  of  Beauty,  ideas  of  Relation.  Each  of 
these  he  examines  in  some  detail.  I 

Part  II  deals  solely  with  Truth  in  art,  in  its  general  and  j 
its  particular  application,  and  gives  opportunity  for  some  ^ 
of  those  wonderful  word  pictures  for  which  Ruskin  is  famous,  i 
He  is  speaking  of  truth  of  colour,  and  he  illustrates  what  he  ] 
has  to  say  by  that  marvellous  passage,  more  gorgeous  than  \ 
the  most  gorgeous  work  of  Turner,  in  which  he  describes  the  • 
vision  of  colour  he  had  seen  one  day  in  the  Campagna.     We  i 
can  imagine  the  ardent  author  reading  such  passages  as  this 
to  his  father  and  mother  in  the  quiet  evenings  at  Heme  Hill,  j 
and  their  delighted  realization  that  some  part  of  the  great  i 
hopes  they  had  entertained  for  him  had  come  true.    Some  i 
passages,  we  are  told,  drew  tears  of  joy  from  their  eyes,  and  | 
the  young  man  of  twenty-three,  who  was  still  a  child  in  his  | 
relations  with  his  parents,  felt  a  boy's  happy  triumph  in  \ 
their  commendation.     When  the  time  came  for  publication, 
however,  the  father's  pride  was  not  so  blind  but  that  he 
could  see  that  the  world  of  art  might  not  take  too  kindly  this 
528  ^ 


MODERN    PAINTERS 

high-toned  instruction  and  setting-to-rights  from  an  inex- 
perienced youth  ;  he  therefore  decreed  that  the  books  should 
be  published  anonymously,  and  signed  "  A  Graduate  of 
Oxford."  But  the  precaution  was  needless.  The  presumption 
of  Modern  Painters  was  freely  forgiven  by  virtue  of  its  splendid 
qualities,  and  although  the  professional  critics  sneered,  they 
could  not  restrain  the  unanimous  burst  of  admiration  which 
came  from  the  best  informed  literary  and  artistic  circles.  That 
great  oracle,  The  Edinburgh  Review,  declared  that  the  bock 
would  "  work  a  complete  revolution  in  the  world  of  taste." 
Tennyson,  who  had  just  reappeared  in  the  world  of  letters 
after  his  ten  years'  silence,  recognized  in  the  author  of  Modern 
Painters  a  brother  poet ;  Turner,  though  the  publicity  into 
which  the  book  had  brought  him  proved  rather  embarrassing, 
seems  to  have  felt  deeply  and  sincerely  the  young  man's 
tribute.  Society  was  eager  to  know  him ;  and  the  proud 
father,  relieved  from  his  fears,  urged  a  continuation  of  the  work. 
This  necessitated  another  expedition  to  Switzerland,  and  the 
whole  family  started  in  May  1844.  In  Switzerland  John  re- 
studied  the  mountains  he  knew  so  well,  and  recorded  fresh 
impressions.  But  the  most  memorable  incident  of  the  ex- 
pedition was  the  visit  to  the  I^ouvre  at  Paris  on  the  homeward 
journey,  and  the  conviction  which  the  pictures  it  contained 
brought  home  to  the  young  writer  that  there  was  a  whole  field 
of  art  that  he  had  neglected.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of 
early  Italian  painters,  and  he  saw  now  how  impossible  it  was 
to  omit  these  from  the  scheme  of  his  book.  After  an  autumn 
and  winter  spent  in  hard  study  at  the  beautiful  country  house 
at  Denmark  Hill  that  his  father  had  lately  bought,  John  started 
alone  (for  the  first  time)  for  Pisa  and  Florence.  Here  he 
studied  with  ardour,  returning  home  when  the  winter  came 
on  to  write  the  second  part  of  his  book.  It  was  published  in 
1846,  and  won  for  its  writer  a  place  still  higher  than  that  which 
he  had  held  before.  It  dealt  chiefly  with  ideas  of  Beauty, 
but  its  propositions  did  not  appear  so  startlingly  new  as  those 
of  the  first  volume  had  done.  The  public  had  had  three  years 
to  assimilate  the  main  propositions  of  Ruskin's  art  theory,  and 

529 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

when  the  second  volume  appeared  they  had  leisure  to  note 
and  to  praise  the  beauty  of  its  style  and  language.  *'  It  is 
usually  read  for  its  pretty  passages,"  Ruskin  complains,  "  its 
theory  of  beauty  is  scarcely  ever  noticed." 

The  next  three  years  were  spent  in  travels  among  the  Alps, 
and  in  the  study  which  produced  in  1849  ^^^  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture.  It  was  a  period  of  despondency  and  ill-health 
culminating  in  1848  in  a  dangerous  illness.  Foreign  travel 
again  proved  a  remedy,  and  as  a  result  of  an  Italian  sojourn 
in  1850  and  185 1  appeared  The  Stones  of  Venice.  These  two 
books  led  Ruskin  to  examine  into  the  conditions  under  which 
the  actual  workmen  employed  in  raising  such  noble  buildings 
as  he  described  did  their  humble  but  most  necessary  part, 
and  helped  to  turn  his  thoughts  toward  the  social  questions 
which  were  soon  to  become  of  paramount  interest  to  him. 
His  interests,  indeed,  were  widening  in  all  directions,  and 
the  young  art  critic  was  becoming  a  man  of  many  and  most 
varied  occupations.  In  1853  he  began  his  career  as  a  lecturer, 
and  in  1854  became  interested  in  the  Working  Men's  Institute, 
founded  by  Frederick  Denison  Maurice  and  Charles  Kingsley, 
with  the  assistance  of  many  other  eminent  men.  Ruskin 
became  one  of  their  most  enthusiastic  helpers.  He  taught 
at  the  College  for  four  years,  and  gave  generous  aid  in  money 
and  in  books.  It  is  impossible  to  catalogue  all  his  numerous 
activities  in  the  years  between  1850  and  i860.  He  had  be- 
come a  personal  friend  and  ardent  disciple  of  Thomas  Carlyle, 
had  formed  a  close  intimacy  with  the  Brownings,  and  had 
altogether  escaped  from  the  narrow  environment  of  his  earlier 
years,  though  he  still  lived  with  his  father  and  mother  at  the 
house  at  Denmark  Hill.  He  had  lectured  not  only  in  I^ondon 
but  at  Oxford,  Cambridge,  and  other  large  towns,  had  taken  an 
active  part  in  all  the  movements  of  the  time  whose  object  was 
to  bring  opportunities  for  higher  education  within  the  reach 
of  the  working  classes,  and  had  become  the  recognized 
authority  of  his  day  on  all  matters  connected  with  art.  It 
was  out  of  this  fuller  and  richer  experience  that  he  wrote  the 
fifth  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  which  was  published  in  i860. 


MODERN    PAINTERS 

Ruskin  was  now  forty  years  old.  With  the  publication  of  the 
last  volume  of  Modern  Painters  he  had,  as  it  were,  ridded 
himself  of  the  residue  of  thoughts  connected  with  pure  art 
to  which  his  early  study  and  devotion  had  given  rise  ;  and  he 
turned  now  to  the  absorbing  subject  of  social  reform.  All  the 
books — and  they  are  many — which  he  wrote  during  the  second 
forty  years  of  his  life  have  to  do,  in  some  way,  with  social 
matters.  None  of  them  deal  with  these  exclusively,  for 
Ruskin*s  mind  possessed  such  rare  powers  of  association  and 
connexion,  that  all  subjects,  whether  they  belonged  to  art, 
science,  economics  or  ethics,  were  so  linked  together  that  it  was 
impossible  to  see  how  the  chain  of  ideas  would  extend  itself. 
He  was  once  announced  to  give  a  lecture  on '  Crystallography,' 
and  he  began  by  telling  his  audience  that  he  intended  to  speak 
on  '  Cistercian  Architecture,'  but  that  the  change  of  title  was 
of  little  moment.  "  For,"  said  he,  "  if  I  had  begun  to  speak 
about  Cistercian  Abbeys,  I  should  have  been  sure  to  get  on 
crystals  presently  ;  and  if  I  had  begun  upon  crystals,  I  should 
have  soon  drifted  into  architecture."  It  is  the  quality  so 
humorously  suggested  in  this  speech  that  gives  Ruskin's 
writings  much  of  their  characteristic  charm  and  his  teaching 
much  of  its  characteristic  value. 

Of  his  career  as  a  social  reformer  we  shall  not  attempt  here 
to  speak.  His  fundamental  principles  were  identical  with 
those  on  which  he  had  based  his  art  teaching — that  from  a 
corrupt  national  life  no  good  thing  can  come ;  that  truth  is 
the  one  vital  necessity  ;  that  shams  are  deadly ;  that  the 
real  worth  of  anything  can  not  be  judged  by  its  money  value  ; 
that  men  should  open  their  eyes  to  see  and  know  the  things 
of  the  Spirit.  His  influence  on  his  generation,  and  on  ours, 
cannot  be  measured,  and  though  much  has  been  said  about  the 
rhapsodies  and  contradictions  which  make  it  so  hard  for  the 
ordinary  person  to  understand  what  he  has  to  say,  his  teaching 
is  really,  to  those  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  study  his  works 
patiently  and  carefully,  of  the  simplest  and  most  consistent. 
*'  I  grew  daily  more  sure,"  he  wrote  at  the  end  of  his  long  life, 
when  in  his  peaceful  retreat  by  I^ake  Coniston  he  looked  back 

531 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

over  the  years  that  had  gone,"  that  the  peace  of  God  rested 
on  all  the  dutiful  and  kindly  hearts  of  the  laborious  poor  ; 
and  the  only  constant  form  of  pure  religion  was  in  useful  work, 
faithful  love,  and  stintless  charity."  He  died  on  January  20, 
1900,  a  year  and  two  days  before  Queen  Victoria,  of  whose 
long  reign  he  had  been  such  an  outstanding  figure. 


53: 


CHAPTER  LIII 
THE   IDYLLS    OF   THE  KING 

TENNYSON  and  Browning  are  the  poets  of  the  Victorian 
era  as  Carlyle  and  Ruskin  are  its  prophets.  They 
were  almost  exact  contemporaries,  Tennyson's  life 
extending  from  1809  to  1892,  and  Browning's  from  18 12  to 
1889.  Both,  though  in  different  ways,  are  fully  representa- 
tive of  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  in  their  work  is  summed  up 
and  crowned  the  work  of  a  company  of  lesser  poets  who  helped 
to  give  glory  to  the  reign  of  the  great  Queen. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  and  spent  his  childhood  at  his 
father's  rectory  of  Somersby,  in  north  lyincolnshire.  He 
was  the  fourth  in  a  family  of  eight  sons  and  four  daughters. 
His  love  for  poetry  was  shown  while  he  was  quite  a  little  lad, 
and  he  very  early  began  to  make  verses.  When  he  was  seven 
years  old  he  was  sent  to  school  at  I^outh.  His  memories  of 
his  schooldays  were  mainly  unhappy  ones,  and  the  best  part 
of  his  early  education  he  gained  from  his  own  reading  in  his 
father's  fine  library.  In  1827  he  and  his  brother  Charles 
published  a  book  of  poems  which  they  called  Poems  by  Two 
Brothers .  For  this  a  local  bookseller  gave  them  twenty  pounds, 
and  with  part  of  this  money  they  hired  a  carriage,  drove 
fourteen  miles  to  Mablethorpe,  and  there  "  shared  their 
triumph  with  the  winds  and  waves." 

In  February  1828  Alfred  Tennyson  entered  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  Here  he  quickly  made  for  himself  a  position, 
and  friends.  "  Alfred  Tennyson  was  our  hero,  the  great  hero 
of  our  day,"  wrote  one  of  these  ;  and  another  described  him 
as,  *'Six  feet  high,  broad-chested,  strong-limbed,  his  face 
Shakespearean,  with  deep  eyelids,  his  forehead  ample,  crowned 

533 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

with  dark  wavy  hair,  his  head  finely  poised,  his  hand  the 
admiration  of  sculptors/'  At  Cambridge  he  made  one  of  a 
little  group  of  students  known  among  their  friends  as  the 
*  Apostles/  almost  all  of  whom  became  famous  in  after  years. 
They  met  in  each  others  rooms  for  the  reading  of  essays  and 
for  discussion,  and  they  formed  friendships  which  lasted 
throughout  their  lives. 

In  1830  Tennyson  published  another  volume  called  Poems, 
Chiefly  Lyrical,  and  in  1832  a  third  which  contained  some  of 
the  poems  by  which  he  is  remembered  to-day,  e.g.  (Enone, 
The  Palace  of  Art,  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women.  He  left  College 
in  1831,  and  returned  to  Somersby.  In  October  1833,  Arthur 
Hallam,  who  had  been  his  closest  friend  at  Cambridge,  and  his 
loyal  comrade  and  adviser  ever  since,  died  suddenly  at  Vienna. 
The  blow  fell  crushingly  on  Tennyson,  and  for  years  this  loss 
darkened  his  life.  In  the  sad  winter  days  that  followed  he 
began  to  write  the  fragments  of  mournful  verse  that  gradually 
developed  into  that  noble  tribute  to  his  dead  friend — the  poem 
of  In  Memoriam. 

Where  is  the  voice  I  loved  ?     Ah,  where 
Is  that  dear  hand  that  I  would  press  ? 
Lo  !   the  broad  heavens  cold  and  bare. 
The  stars  that  know  not  my  distress. 

•  ....  9 

The  vapour  labours  up  the  sky. 
Uncertain  forms  are  darkly  moved  ! 
Larger  than  human  passes  by 
The  shadow  of  the  man  I  loved. 
And  clasps  his  hands,  as  one  that  prays  ! 

For  ten  years  after  the  death  of  Arthur  Hallam  Tennyson 
published  nothing.  The  first  four  years  he  spent  quietly  at 
Somersby  Rectory,  which  still  remained  the  home  of  the 
Tennysons,  though  the  father  had  died  in  1831.  From  time 
to  time  he  made  an  expedition  to  I^ondon,  to  see  his  old  friends, 
and  in  1835  he  visited  the  I^ake  Country.  But  such  jaunts 
were  rare  ;  for  he  was  poor,  and  his  poetical  work  had  so 
far  brought  in  nothing  save  the  memorable  twenty  pounds. 
Moreover  he  was  working  hard  at  his  poems,  polishing  and 
almost    rewriting    some    of    those    already  published,   and 

534 


wF 


X-'O 


Lord  Tennyson 


531 


J< 


THE    IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING 

unposing  new  ones.  "  From  the  letters  of  that  time/'  his  son 
wrote,  in  the  Memoir  published  in  1897,  "  I  gather  that  there 
was  a  strong  current  of  depreciation  of  my  father  in  certain 
literary  quarters.  However,  he  kept  up  his  courage,  profited 
by  friendly  and  unfriendly  criticism,  and  in  silence,  obscurity 
and  solitude,  perfected  his  art." 

Edward  Fitzgerald  tells  us  that  in  1835  when  he,  James 
Spedding  (another  famous  member  of  the  Cambridge  group) 
and  Tennyson  were  in  the  I^ake  District  together,  Tennyson 
used,  in  the  evenings,  to  take  out  a  *  little  red  book  *  of 
manuscript  and  read  to  his  two  friends  the  poems  he  had  lately 
written.  These  included  the  Morte  d' Arthur,  The  Day  Dream, 
The  Lord  of  Burleigh,  Dora,  and  The  Gardener's  Daughter.  Of 
the  Morte  d' Arthur  he  had  previously  written  to  Spedding 
that  he  thought  it  was  the  "  best  thing  I  have  managed  lately,'* 
and  it  is  interesting  to  us  as  being  the  first  instalment  of  the 
Idylls  of  the  King.  No  idea  of  the  larger  work  seems  to  have 
yet  occurred  to  Tennyson,  although  Sir  Galahad,  written  about 
the  same  time  shows  that  the  story  of  King  Arthur  and  his 
knights  was  already  beginning  to  occupy  his  thoughts. 

In  1837  the  Tennysons  left  Somersby  and  took  a  house  at 
High  Beech,  in  Epping  Forest.  There,  in  his  study,  which 
"  was  not  the  top  attic,  according  to  his  usual  preference,  but 
a  large  room  over  the  dining-room,  with  a  bay-window,  red 
curtains,  and  a  Cl)rtie  on  a  pedestal  in  the  corner,"  Tennyson 
worked.  Slowly  the  number  of  poems  ready  for  publication 
increased.  In  1840  the  family  left  High  Beech,  and  after  a 
short  stay  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  settled  at  Boxley,  near  Maid- 
stone. Tennyson  spent  a  great  part  of  the  year  1842  in  lyondon, 
and  mixed  freely  with  the  '  Apostles,'  many  of  whom  had  be- 
come noted  men,  and  with  others  of  the  foremost  in  literature. 
Tennyson,  when  the  mood  was  on  him,  was  a  most  delightful 
companion.  He  was  shy  in  general  society,  and  he  had  much 
of  the  *  black  blood '  which  he  tells  us  was  the  inheritance  of 
his  race.  This  at  times  cast  him  into  such  terrible  fits  of 
depression  as  seriously  affected  his  health.  It  prevented  him 
from  looking  out  on  life  with  a  calm  and  settled  hopefulness, 

535 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  though  he  possessed  the  larger  faith  which  could  see, 
clear-eyed,  beyond  the  enveloping  cloud,  and  recognize  the 
'  increasing  purpose '  that  ran  through  the  ages,  yet  he  was 
often  tormented  by  the  apparent  cruelty  of  the  methods  by 
which  the  progress  of  the  race  must  be  brought  about.  In 
his  normal  moods,  however,  he  was  cheerful  enough,  and 
capable  of  the  wildest  flights  of  mirth  and  nonsense.  In  1842, 
some  of  the  high  spirits  which,  since  the  death  of  Arthur 
Hallam,  he  had  lost,  were  coming  back.  "  He  used  to  do  the 
sun  coming  out  from  a  cloud,  and  retiring  into  one  again,  with 
a  gradual  opening  and  shutting  of  the  eyes,  and  with  a  great 
fluffing  up  of  his  hair  into  full  wig  and  elevation  of  cravat  and 
collar  ;  George  IV  in  as  comical  and  wonderful  a  way."  Or 
he  would  give  dramatic  recitals  from  Shakespeare  or  Moli^re, 
or  enact  with  grim  humour  Milton*s  "  So  started  up  in  his  foul 
shape  the  fiend,*'  from  the  crouching  of  the  toad  to  the  ex- 
plosion, "  varying  these  performances  with  imitations  of 
public  men  of  the  day."  He  became  intimate  with  Carlyle, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  two  years  before,  and  the 
philosopher  wrote,  in  a  letter  to  his  brother,  a  description  of  his 
new  acquaintance.  "  A  fine,  large-featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze- 
coloured,  shaggy-headed  man  is  Alfred ;  dusty,  smoky,  free 
and  easy ;  who  swims,  outwardly  and  inwardly,  with  great 
composure  in  an  articulate  element  as  of  tranquil  chaos  and 
tobacco  smoke  ;  great  now  and  then  when  he  does  emerge  ; 
a  most  restful,  brotherly,  solid-hearted  man."  Mrs.  Carlyle 
describes  him  as  **  a  very  handsome  man,  and  a  noble-hearted 
one,  with  something  of  the  gypsy  in  his  appearance,  which  for 
me  is  perfectly  charming." 

During  this  stay  in  I/Ondon  the  poems  for  the  new  volume 
were  undergoing  final  revision.  Fitzgerald  tells  of  the  meetings 
which  took  place  in  Spedding's  Chambers  at  60  I^incoln's  Inn 
Fields.  "  The  poems  to  be  printed  were  nearly  all,  I  think  all, 
written  out  in  a  foolscap  folio  parchment  bound  blank  book 
such  as  accounts  are  kept  in  (only  not  ruled),  and  which  I 
used  to  call  '  The  Butcher's  Book.'  The  poems  were  written 
in  A.  T.'s  very  fine  hand  (he  once  said,  not  thinking  of  himself, 


THE    IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING 

that  great  men  generally  wrote  '  terse  *  hands)  toward  one  side 
of  the  large  page ;  the  unoccupied  edges  and  corners  being 
stript  down  for  pipe-lights,  taking  care  to  save  the  MS.,  as  A.  T. 
once  seriously  observed.  These  pages  of  MS.  from  the 
Butcher's  Book  were  one  by  one  torn  out  for  the  printer,  and 
when  returned  with  the  proofs  were  put  in  the  fire.  I  reserved 
two  or  three  of  the  leaves ;  and  gave  them  to  the  I^ibrary  of 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge." 

The  period  of  publication  was  a  time  of  trial  to  the  critical 
and  sensitive  poet,  with  his  lofty  ideal  of  what  his  work  should 
be.  "  Poor  Tennyson  has  got  home  some  of  his  proof-sheets,*' 
writes  Fitzgerald,  "  and  now  that  his  verses  are  in  hard  print 
he  thinks  them  detestable."  "  But/'  he  goes  on,  .  .  .  "he 
will  publish  such  a  volume  as  has  never  been  published  since 
the  time  of  Keats,  and  which,  once  published,  will  never 
be  suffered  to  die.  This  is  my  prophesy,  for  I  live  before 
Posterity." 

The  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  The  two  volumes  of  1842  con- 
tained, besides  the  poems  that  have  already  been  mentioned, 
others  which  are  still  held  as  among  the  greatest  that  our  great 
Victorian  Laureate  ever  wrote.  Such  are  The  Talking  Oak, 
Locksley  Hall,  The  Two  Voices,  The  Poet's  Song,  Ulysses  and 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere.  Some  of  the  poet's  friends 
and  critics — notably  Edward  Fitzgerald — held  that  he  never 
again  rose  quite  as  high  as  he  had  done  in  these  volumes.  The 
reviews  in  the  leading  magazines  were  favourable,  and  the 
general  public  came  gradually  to  appreciate  the  fine  quality 
of  the  work  put  before  them.  Among  the  group  of  cultured 
literary  men  who  were  Tennyson's  intimates  or  acquaintances 
there  was  only  one  opinion.  "  Truly,"  wrote  Carlyle,  "  it  is 
long  since  in  any  English  book.  Poetry  or  Prose,  I  have  felt 
the  pulse  of  a  real  man's  heart  as  I  do  in  this  same."  Dickens 
wrote  to  him  as  "  a  man  whose  writings  enlist  my  whole  heart 
and  nature  in  admiration  of  their  Truth  and  Beauty ;  "  and 
the  old  poet  and  patron  of  poets,  Samuel  Rogers,  declared  that 
"  few  things,  if  any,  have  ever  thrilled  me  so  much  as  '  your 
two  beautiful  volumes.' " 

2M  537 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Tennyson's  reputation  was  secure,  although  his  general 
popularity  increased  only  very  gradually.  At  first  the  poems 
brought  a  very  small  money  return.  There  still  seemed  little 
prospect  that  he  would  ever  obtain  an  adequate  income  from 
his  works,  and  to  do  so  was  his  ardent  desire.  Since  1836  he 
had  been  engaged  to  marry  Miss  Emily  Sellwood,  sister  to  his 
brother  Charles's  wife,  and  the  marriage  was  only  delayed 
through  his  lack  of  means.  In  1843,  by  the  failure  of  Dr. 
Allen's  wood-carving  company,  he  lost  almost  all  his  small 
capital.  The  disappointment  threw  him  into  one  of  his 
constitutional  fits  of  despondency.  He  became  really  ill,  and 
was  induced  by  his  family  to  try  the  hydropathic  treatment 
at  Cheltenham.  While  he  was  there  came  a  letter  from  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  telling  him  that  a  pension  of  £200  had  been  con- 
ferred on  him  by  the  Crown.  It  was  accepted,  though  with 
some  hesitation.  "  Something  in  that  word  *  pension,'  "  wrote 
Tennyson  to  a  friend,  "  sticks  in  my  gizzard ;  it  is  only  the 
name,  and  perhaps  would  smell  *  sweeter '  by  some  other. 
Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  in  a  manner  to  be  grateful." 

In  1847  Tennyson  published  The  Princess,  and  in  1850  In 
Memoriam.  Both  were  well  received,  and  their  success  brought 
the  longed-for  competence.  In  June  1850  Tennyson  was  married 
to  Miss  Sellwood  at  Shiplake  Church,  on  the  Thames.  They 
lived  for  a  short  time  in  Sussex,  and  then  for  nearly  three 
years  at  Twickenham.  In  November  1850,  upon  the  death  of 
Wordsworth,  Tenn^^son  was  appointed  Poet  I^aureate.  In 
1852  his  son  Hallam  was  born,  and  in  1854  ^  second  son, 
Lionel.  In  1853  Tennyson's  circumstances  had  so  far  im- 
proved that  he  resolved  on  moving  to  a  larger  house  in  the 
country.  He  settled  at  last  on  a  house  at  Farringford  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  It  was  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  sea,  and 
to  the  left  rose  the  breezy,  beautiful  Downs.  It  was  secluded 
enough  to  satisfy  Tennyson's  love  of  retirement,  yet  not  too 
far  from  books  and  publishers.  Here  for  forty  years  was  his  : 
home,  and  here  he  wrote  many  of  his  most  famous  works. 

The  life  at  Farringford,  as  it  is  described  in  the  Memoir  of 
Tennyson,  written  by  his  eldest  son,  was  ideally  beautiful, 

538 


THE    IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING 

and  cannot  be  told  so  well  as  in  the  words  of  one  who  took 
part  in  it.  "  My  father  and  mother  settled  to  a  country  life 
at  once,  looking  after  their  little  farm,  and  tending  the  poor 
and  sick  of  the  village.  In  the  afternoons  they  swept  up 
leaves,  mowed  the  grass,  gravelled  the  walks,  and  he  built 
what  he  called  a  '  bower  of  rushes  *  in  the  kitchen  garden. 
The  primroses  and  snowdrops  and  other  flowers  were  a  constant 
delight,  and  he  began  a  flower  dictionary.  He  also  bought 
spy-glasses  through  which  he  might  watch  the  ways  and  move- 
ments of  the  birds  in  the  ilexes,  cedar-  and  fir-trees.  Geology 
too  he  took  up,  and  trudged  out  with  the  local  geologist. 
Keeping,  on  many  a  long  expedition.  .  .  . 

"If  it  was  rainy  or  stormy,  and  we  were  kept  indoors,  he 
often  built  cities  for  us  with  bricks,  or  played  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  ;  or  sometimes  he  read  Grimm's  Fairy  Stones  or 
repeated  ballads  to  us.  .  .  .  On  feast  days  he  would  blow 
bubbles  and  then  grow  much  excited  over  the  '  gorgeous  colours 
and  landscapes,  and  the  planets  breaking  off  from  their  suns, 
and  the  single  star  becoming  a  double  star,'  which  he  saw  in 
these  bubbles  ;  or  if  it  were  evening  he  would  help  us  to  act 
scenes  from  some  well-known  play.  .  .  .  My  father  was 
always  interested  in  the  imaginative  views  which  we  children 
took  of  our  surroundings.  Of  these  I  may  give  one  instance  ; 
how  I^ionel  had  been  brought  from  his  bed  at  night,  wrapt  in 
a  blanket,  to  see  the  great  comet,  and  suddenly  awaking  and 
looking  out  at  the  starry  night,  asked,  *  Am  I  dead  ?  '  " 

The  house  at  Farringford  was  beautiful  and  homelike.  It 
seemed,  Lady  Ritchie  (daughter  of  Thackeray)  tells  us,  *'  like 
a  charmed  palace,  with  green  walls  without,  and  speaking 
walls  within.  There  hung  Dante  with  his  solemn  nose  and 
wreath  ;  Italy  gleamed  over  the  doorways  ;  friends'  faces  lined 
the  passages,  books  filled  the  shelves,  and  a  glow  of  crimson 
was  everywhere  ;  the  oriel  drawing-room  window  was  full  of 
green  and  golden  leaves,  of  the  sound  of  birds  and  of  the 
distant  sea."  '^'^ 

The  first  poem  written  in  the  new  home  was  Maud,  Tenny- 
son's own  favourite  among  all  his  works.    He  wrote  it,  his  son 

539 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

says,  *'  morning  and  evening,  sitting  in  his  hard,  high-backed 
wooden  chair  in  his  Httle  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  His 
'  sacred  pipes,'  as  he  called  them,  were  half  an  hour  after 
breakfast,  and  half  an  hour  after  dinner,  when  no  one  was 
allowed  to  be  with  him,  for  then  his  best  thoughts  came  to  him. 
As  he  made  the  different  poems  he  would  repeat  or  read  them. 
The  constant  reading  of  the  new  poems  aloud  was  the  surest 
way  of  helping  him  to  find  out  any  defects  they  might  possess. 
During  his  *  sacred  half -hours '  and  his  other  working  hours 
and  even  on  the  Downs,  he  would  murmur  his  new  passages 
or  new  lines  as  they  came  to  him,  a  habit  that  had  always  been 
his  since  boyhood,  and  which  had  caused  the  Somersby  cook 
to  say, '  What  is  master  Awlfred  always  a  praying  f or  ?  '  " 

The  Tennysons  were  so  well  pleased  with  Farringford  that 
in  1853  Tennyson  decided  to  buy  it,  and  the  "  ivied  home 
among  the  pine-trees  '*  became  his  own.  Early  in  the  same 
year  he  began  to  work  seriously  at  his  Idylls  of  the  King,  the 
general  plan  of  which  had  been  for  some  time  in  his  mind. 
He  took  up  the  story  of  King  Arthur  in  the  same  spirit  that 
Spenser  had  brought  to  it  three  hundred  years  before.  "  The 
generall  end,  therefore,  of  all  the  book  is  to  fashion  a  gentleman 
or  noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle  discipline,"  the  Eliza- 
bethan poet  had  said ;  and  his  Victorian  descendant  spoke 
after  the  same  fashion.  King  Arthur  "  is  meant  to  be  a  man 
who  spent  himself  in  the  cause  of  honour,  duty  and  self- 
sacrifice,  who  felt  and  aspired  with  his  nobler  knights,  though 
with  a  stronger  and  a  clearer  conscience  than  any  of  them, 
'  reverencing  his  conscience  as  his  king.'  '  There  was  no  such 
perfect  man  since  Adam,'  as  an  old  writer  says."  Tennyson's 
ideal  knight  of  the  nineteenth  century  naturally  differs  from 
Spenser's  ideal  knight  of  the  sixteenth.  The  later  poet  has 
been  severely  blamed  because  he  attributed  to  this  old  British 
king  the  ethical  code  and  the  manners  of  modern  times.  He 
produced  thereby,  say  the  critics,  a  fantastic  and  unreal  work 
which  has  nothing  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  mediaeval  stories, 
such  as  is  to  be  found  in  Malory's  great  prose  version  of  the 
Arthurian  legend,  and  which  loses  interest  as  a  modern  poem 
540 


THE    IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING 

through  its  scene  being  laid  in  the  far  past.  The  criticism 
is  to  some  extent  a  just  one ;  yet  the  Idylls  have  a  beauty  and 
a  value  which  such  criticism  cannot  touch.  The  general  idea 
on  which  they  are  based  is  a  lofty  and  a  noble  one.  "  We 
needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it,"  and  Tennyson 
here  puts  the  *  highest '  before  us  in  such  a  lovely  and  attrac- 
tive form,  that  it  would  be  difficult  indeed  not  to  *  see '  it. 
The  workmanship  of  the  poems  is  perfect — ^too  perfect,  some 
critics  are  inclined  to  think.  "  I  am  not  sure,"  wrote  Ruskin 
to  Tennyson,  "  but  I  feel  the  art  and  finish  in  these  poems  a 
little  more  than  I  like  to  feel  it.  Yet  I  am  not  a  fair  judge 
quite,  for  I  am  so  much  of  a  realist  as  not  by  any  possibility  to 
interest  myself  much  in  an  unreal  subject,  to  feel  it  as  I  should, 
and  the  very  sweetness  and  stateliness  of  the  words  strike  me 
all  the  more  as  pure  workmanship."  But  this  objection  can- 
not hold  with  reference  to  the  great  and  inspired  passages  of 
which  examples  are  to  be  found  in  almost  every  one  of  the 
Idylls  ;  and  instead  of  searching  for  faults  in  things  so  beau- 
tiful, we  should  do  better  to  accept  them  in  the  spirit  of 
Thackeray,  as  something  for  which  we  may  rejoice  and  be 
thankful.  '*  Here  I  have  been,"  wrote  the  great  novelist, 
"  lying  back  in  the  chair  and  thinking  of  those  delightful 
Idylls,  my  thoughts  being  turned  to  you  ;  and  what  could  I 
do  but  be  grateful  to  that  surprising  genius  which  has  made 
me  so  happy.  Gold  and  purple  and  diamonds,  I  say, 
gentlemen,  and  glory  and  love  and  honour,  and  if  you  haven't 
given  me  all  these,  why  should  I  be  in  such  an  ardour  of 
gratitude  ?  But  I  have  had  out  of  that  dear  book  the  greatest 
delight  that  has  ever  come  to  me  since  I  was  a  young  man." 

Merlin  and  Vivien  was  finished  by  March  31,  1856,  and 
Geraint  and  Enid  begun  on  April  16.  It  was  finished  during 
an  expedition  to  Wales  toward  the  end  of  the  summer.  *'  The 
Usk  murmurs  by  the  windows,"  Tennyson  wrote,  "  and  I  sit 
like  King  Arthur  in  Caerleon."  On  July  9, 1857,  ^^s.  Tennyson 
entered  in  her  diary,  "  Alfred  has  brought  me  as  a  birthday 
present  the  first  two  lines  he  has  made  of  Guinevere  which 
might  be  the  nucleus  of  a  great  poem."    On  March  8  she  wrote, 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

"  To-day  he  has  written  his  song  of  Too  Late  and  has  said 
it  to  me ; "  and  on  March  15  "  Guinevere  is  finally  completed." 
Toward  the  end  of  the  summer  of  1859  "the  first  four  Idylls 
were  published.  The  book  had  an  immediate  success,  ten 
thousand  copies  being  sold  in  the  first  week  of  publication. 
Tennyson  had  at  last  become  a  popular  poet. 

No  more  of  the  Idylls  were  published  for  ten  years.  Tenny- 
son hesitated  about  continuing  them, "  I  have  thought  about  it," 
he  wrote  in  1862,  *'  but  I  dare  not  set  to  work  for  fear  of  failure 
and  time  lost."  He  was  meditating  whether  he  should  or  should 
not  take  up  the  story  of  the  Holy  Grail.  "  I  doubt  whether 
such  a  subject  could  be  handled  in  these  days  without  incurring 
a  charge  of  irreverence."  The  Holy  Grail  was  at  last  written 
"  as  if  by  a  breath  of  inspiration  "  ;  and  in  1869  was  published 
the  volume  containing  that  poem  and  The  Coming  of  Arthur, 
Pelleas  and  Etarre  and  The  Passing  of  Arthur.  The  Last 
Tournament  and  Gareth  and  Lynette  appeared  in  1872  ;  then, 
after  an  interval  of  thirteen  years,  came  the  last  of  the  series, 
Balin  and  Balan. 

The  Idylls  were  dedicated  to  the  Prince  Consort  in  verses  so 
beautiful,  so  tender,  and  so  full  of  a  just  and  wise  appreciation 
of  the  great  man  who  had  gone  that  it  was  no  wonder  the 
Princess  Royal  wrote  to  Tennyson  :  "  Surely  it  must  give  the 
Author  satisfaction  to  think  that  his  words  have  been  drops 
of  balm  on  the  broken  and  loving  hearts  of  the  widowed 
Queen  and  her  orphaned  children."  At  the  end  of  the  Idylls 
comes  an  address  To  the  Queen,  which  contains  lines  in  which 
Tennyson  tells  something  of  his  purpose  and  meaning  in 
writing  the  poems. 

But  thou,  my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his  grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale. 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war  with  Soul 
Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose  name,  a  ghost. 
Streams  hke  a  cloud,  man-shaped,  from  moimtain  peak. 
And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  crotnlech  still. 

He  ends  with  words  of  noble  comfort  in  the  troublous  times 
that  then  seemed  approaching. 


THE    IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING 

Yet — if  our  slowly-grown 
And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  common-sense. 
That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail — their  fears 
Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the  shapes 
That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier  which  forego 
The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the  West, 
Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 

During  the  next  twelve  years  Tennyson  occupied  himself 
chiefly  with  a  series  of  historical  dramas  in  blank  verse — 
Harold,  Becket,  Queen  Mary,  and  some  minor  dramatic  pieces — 
The  Falcon,  The  Cup  and  The  Promise  of  May.  In  1874  he 
was  raised  to  the  peerage  as  Baron  of  Aldworth  and  Farring- 
ford,  his  seats  in  Sussex  and  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  1880  he 
published  a  volume  of  ballads  containing  among  other  pieces 
the  famous  Revenge.  He  continued  to  write  up  to  the  last 
year  of  his  life,  and  in  1889,  when  he  was  eighty  years  old,  pro- 
duced Crossing  the  Bar,  which  has  all  the  beauty  and  grace 
of  the  lyrics  written  when  his  powers  were  at  their  fullest. 
He  died  at  Aldworth  on  October  6,  1892,  and  was  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 


543 


CHAPTER  LIV 

BELLS   AND    POMEGRANATES: 
AURORA   LEIGH 

ONE  day,  in  the  year  1826,  a  schoolboy  of  fourteen 
passing  along  the  streets  of  Camberwell  toward  his 
home,  saw  on  a  bookstall  a  second-hand  copy  of 
Shelley's  Queen  Mab,  marked  **  Mr.  Shelley's  Atheistical  Poem  : 
very  scarce."  The  boy  had,  by  nature  and  by  training,  a 
lively  interest  in  books,  especially  in  those  which  were  *  very 
scarce.'  His  father  was  an  ardent  book-lover,  and  the 
Camberwell  house  was  filled  with  rare  and  curious  volumes. 
But  there  was  no  poem  by  Mr.  Shelley  among  them,  and  young 
Robert  Browning's  curiosity  was  aroused  by  the  new  name. 
He  made  eager  inquiries  among  his  friends  concerning  it,  and 
learnt  that  Mr.  Shelley  was  a  young  poet  who  had  died  four 
years  before.  Such  scanty  information  could  not  content  the 
eager,  impetuous  boy.  He  felt  a  strong  sympathy  with  all 
young  poets,  for  he  himself  had  '  made  up  '  verses  even  before 
he  could  write,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  had  produced  a  manu- 
script volume  of  short  poems  for  which  his  father  had  in  vain 
tried  to  find  a  publisher.  He  entreated  his  mother  to  get  him 
a  copy  of  Shelley's  works,  and  she  was  very  willing  to  do  so, 
but  none  of  the  Camberwell  booksellers  had  heard  even  the 
name  of  the  poet  who  is  now  so  famous.  At  last  Mrs.  Browning 
obtained  the  address  of  the  I^ondon  firm  where  Shelley's  works 
were  on  sale.  She  brought  back  to  her  son  copies  of  the  first 
edition  of  nearly  all  the  poems  of  Shelley,  except  The  Cenci, 
and  she  brought  also,  on  the  bookseller's  recommendation,  three 
volumes  of  the  works  of  another  unknown  poet,  John  Keats. 
Young  Robert  Browning  took  the  poems  and  began  to  read 

544 


F 

P      BELLS    &    POMEGRANATES 

them  with  that  keen  anticipation  of  enjoyment  natural  in  a 
lad  whose  pleasures  had  been  mainly  associated  with  books 
from  the  time  that  he  and  his  father  had  played  at  Greeks  and 
Trojans  with  a  city  of  Troy  made  out  of  a  pile  of  drawing-room 
chairs.  But  these  books,  he  soon  found,  were  like  no  others 
that  he  had  read.  The  spirits  of  the  two  dead  poets  seemed  to 
hover  round  him,  so  intensely  did  he  realize  their  thoughts  and 
emotions.  Behind  his  father's  house  was  a  pleasant,  old- 
fashioned  garden,  and  as  the  boy  walked  there  in  the  soft 
darkness  of  a  May  evening  he  heard  a  nightingale  singing  in  a 
golden  laburnum-tree  and  another  answering  from  a  ruddy 
copper  beech  in  a  garden  close  by.  The  conviction  came  to 
him  that  these  were  the  spirits  of  Shelley  and  of  Keats,  called 
up  by  the  passionate  adoration  of  their  new  worshipper.  No 
wonder  that  when,  toward  the  end  of  his  life,  somebody  said 
to  him,  "  There  is  no  romance  now  except  in  Italy,"  he 
answered,  remembering  the  splendid  dreams  of  the  far-off 
days,  *'  Ah,  well,  I  should  like  to  include  poor  old 
Camberwell." 

It  was  Shelley  and  Keats  who  gave  as  it  were  the  casting 
vote  in  the  choice  of  young  Robert  Browning's  profession. 
When  the  time  came  for  a  definite  decision  to  be  made  he  had 
long  ago  decided  that  he  was  to  be  a  poet.  His  cultured, 
kindly  father,  who  himself  only  just  missed  being  a  genius, 
recognized  and  exulted  in  Robert's  unusual  powers.  He 
rejected  at  once  an  offer  of  a  bank  of  England  clerkship,  such  as 
he  had  held  for  many  years,  for  his  son,  and  suggested  one  of 
the  learned  professions.  But  when  he  saw  that  the  young 
man's  heart  was  wholly  set  on  poetry,  he  met  his  wishes  with 
the  loving  cordiality  that  was  usual  to  him.  It  was  long 
before  Robert  Browning  received  a  penny  for  his  poetry,  and 
during  all  those  years  his  father  supported  him  with  ready 
generosity. 

We  are  told  that  when  the  decision  was  finally  made  the 
future  poet  set  to  work  to  prepare  himself  for  his  calling  by 
reading  through  the  whole  of  Johnson's  Dictionary.  We  have 
no  doubt  that  he  enjoyed  the  study  mightily,  and  gave  to  his 

545 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

family  and  his  friends  an  enraptured  description  of  the  beauties 
of  this  fascinating  work.  For  Robert  Browning  had  such  an 
intense  zest  of  living  that  he  enjoyed  things  that  might  seem 
to  the  ordinary  person  tedious  and  dull.  For  him  there  was  no 
sharply  drawn  line  dividing  the  sublime  from  the  common- 
place. The  young  man  who  strode  over  Wimbledon  Common, 
his  head  uplifted,  his  dark  hair  tossed  by  the  wind,  his  grey 
eyes  shining,  reciting  aloud  grand  passages  from  Isaiah — who 
stopped  Carlyle  when  that  great  man  was  out  riding,  and,  with 
a  tremendous  outpouring  of  eloquence,  expressed  his  delighted 
appreciation  of  Sartor  Resarhis  and  other  of  the  prophet's 
works — was  deeply  interested  also  in  the  fit  of  his  lemon- 
coloured  kid  gloves  and  in  the  quality  of  the  wine  he  drank 
at  dinner.  His  robust,  almost  tempestuous  enjoyment  of  life 
included  small  things  as  well  as  great. 

In  1833  he  published  his  first  poem,  Pauline  :  A  Fragment 
of  a  Confession,  the  general  plan  of  which  is  crude  and  extrava- 
gant, though  there  are  some  passages  of  great  beauty.  The 
poem  is  chiefly  interesting  now  as  showing  the  influence  which 
Shelley  and  Keats  had  upon  Browning's  early  years.  In 
Pauline  Shelley  is  addressed  as  the  '  Sun-treader '  and 
Keats  as  the  '  Star.'  The  poem,  which  was  published 
anonymously,  attracted  little  notice.  It  was  followed  in 
1835  by  Paracelsus,  which  tells  of  the  great  medical 
scientist  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  in  1837  by  Strafford,  a 
drama  which  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre 
and  met  with  moderate  success;  and  in  1840  by  Sordello, 
which  is  always  quoted  as  a  typical  example  of  the 
'  obscurity '  with  which  Browning  is  charged.  A  copy  of 
this  poem  was  sent  to  Carlyle,  and  it  is  said  that  he  wrote  back 
that  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  read  it  with  much  interest,  and  would 
be  very  glad  if  the  author  would  tell  her  whether  Sordello  was 
a  man  or  a  city  or  a  book.  Many  other  similar  stories  are  told 
about  this  unfortunate  work  to  which  Browning  himself,  we 
are  told,  in  after  years  alluded  as  *  quite  unintelligible.' 
The  fault  did  not  lie  in  any  lack  of  powers  of  expression  but 
rather  in  a  richness  and  exuberance  of  imagination  which 

546 


Robert  Browning 

G.  F.  Watts 
Photo.  W.  A.  ManieU  <fc  Co. 


546 


BELLS    &    POMEGRANATES 

caused  ideas  to  be  crowded  out  by  the  quick  rush  of  others 
that  followed  them,  so  that  the  poet  in  his  eagerness  had  only 
time  to  express  himself  by  a  kind  of  shorthand  in  which  a  word 
became  the  symbol  for  a  complete  thought,  and  a  dash  stood 
for  an  explanatory  sentence.  It  was  all  clear  enough  to  him 
at  the  time,  but  to  his  readers  who  had  no  clue  to  the  peculiar 
system  of  association  which  prevailed  in  his  own  mind,  it  was 
like  trying  to  cross  a  brook  where  more  than  half  the  stepping- 
stones  are  under  water,  and  those  that  remain  visible  are  so 
eccentrically  placed  that  they  fail  altogether  to  suggest  the 
position  of  the  hidden  ones.  The  traveller  prefers  to  fall 
ignominiously  into  the  wet  and  the  mud  rather  than  make 
the  attempt  to  cross  by  means  of  the  exhausting  leaps  necessary 
to  carry  him  to  the  other  side,  or  by  the  slow  process  of  track- 
ing out  the  missing  stones. 

This  fault  of  obscurity  marks  nearly  all  Robert  Browning's 
works  to  a  greater  or  a  less  degree.  But  as  if  to  prove  to  us 
that  it  arose  from  no  radical  defect  in  poetic  power,  the  poem 
that  followed  SordcUo  is  almost  entirely  free  from  it.  In  1841 
came  Pippa  Passes.  It  was  conceived,  we  are  told,  during  one 
of  the  night  rambles  in  which  Browning  sometimes  indulged. 
A  passion  of  pure  love  for  his  kind,  such  as  is  common  to  the 
warm  and  generous  heart  of  youth,  possessed  him.  He  longed 
to  serve  and  bless  some  among  the  crowd  of  his  fellow-men 
who  lay  below,  many  of  them,  doubtless,  in  sore  need  of  help. 
And  as  he  thought  there  arose  in  his  mind  the  idea  of  an  in- 
fluence exerted  unconsciously  and  simply  by  the  sheer  force 
of  the  love  and  purity  of  one  soul  that  passed  by.  The  idea 
was  embodied  in  the  story  of  the  little  Italian  peasant  girl,  who 
worked  in  the  silk  mills  of  Asolo,  had  one  day's  hoHday  in  the 
year,  and  resolved  to  spend  that  day  so  as  to  gain  from  it  all 
that  it  could  possibly  give. 

Oh,  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 

A  mite  of  my  twelve  hoxirs'  treasure, 

The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to  or  gifts  above  measure) 

One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances, 

(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee  or  freaks  at  thy  pleasure) 

547 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

— My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labour  or  leisure. 
Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me  1 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pippa, — old-year's  sorrow. 
Cast  off  last  night,  will  come  again  to-morrow  : 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall  borrow 
Suflacient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's  sorrow. 

So  the  child  talks  on  happily,  and  pleases  herself  by  imagining 
herself  to  be  each,  in  turn,  of  Asolo's  *'  Four  Happiest  Ones/' 
Then  the  fancy  takes  her  that  she  will  connect  her  day's 
holiday  with  these. 

I  will  pass  each,  and  see  their  happiness. 

And  envy  none — being  just  as  great,  no  doubt, 

Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God,  as  they  1 

In  this  Spirit  she  sets  out,  singing  as  she  goes.  She  passes  by 
each  of  the  "  Four  Happiest  Ones  '*  at  some  critical  moment 
in  their  history,  and  by  her  song  unconsciously  influences  their 
fates.  There  are  thus  four  stories  in  the  poem,  linked  together 
by  the  fifth  story  of  the  little  peasant  girl.  The  keynote  of 
the  whole  is  struck  in  the  shortest,  yet  the  most  beautiful  of 
Pippa's  songs. 

The  year's  at  the  spring 

The  day's  at  the  mom  ; 

Morning's  at  seven  ; 

The  hill-side's  dew-pearled ; 

The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 

The  snail's  on  the  thorn  : 

God's  in  his  heaven — 

All's  right  with  the  world  1 

Pippa  Passes,  like  Browning's  previous  works,  found  no 
pubHsher  ready  to  take  the  risks  of  its  publication.  Mr. 
Edward  Moxon  was  approached,  and  in  the  course  of  negotia- 
tions offered  to  produce  it,  in  pamphlet  form,  at  a  very  trifling 
expense  to  the  author.  Browning  at  once  accepted  the  offer, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  a  series  of  his  poems  should  appear 
in  this  fashion.  To  the  series  he  gave  the  name  of  Bells  and 
Pomegranates.  Pippa  Passes,  1841,  was  followed  in  1842  by 
King  Victor  and  King  Charles,  a  tragedy  dealing  with  the  Dukes 
of  Savoy,  1720-1732.  Number  three  contained,  among  other 
lyrics,  the  famous  Cavalier  Tunes  and   The  Pied  Piper  of 

548 


BELLS    Gf    POMEGRANATES 
Hamelin.    We  will  quote  one  verse  of  the  first  of  the  Cavalier 
Lyrics  to  show  Browning  as  a  master  of  plain,  straightforward 
gallantly  stepping  verse  : 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parhament  swing  ; 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop. 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

The  Pied  Piper  was  written  originally  for  the  eldest  son  of  Mr. 
Macready,  the  famous  actor.  The  child  was  confined  to  the 
house  by  illness,  and  Browning  sent  him  the  poem  that  he 
might  amuse  himself  by  drawing  illustrations  to,  as  well  as  by 
reading  it.  The  poet's  sister  found,  long  after,  the  illustra- 
tions that  Willy  Macready  had  sent  to  his  friend,  with  a  touch- 
ing little  letter.  The  poem  is  now  the  property  of  children  in 
general,  and  is  too  well  known  for  any  quotations  from  it  to  be 
needed  here. 

The  year  1843  saw  the  publication  of  numbers  four  and  five 
of  Bells  and  Pomegranates — The  Return  of  the  Druses,  and  A 
Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  two  tragedies.  In  1844  came  Colomhes* 
Birthday,  and  in  1845  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics  This 
number  contained  some  of  Browning's  finest  work.  There  is,  for 
instance,  the  exquisite  Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad  ("  Oh,  to 
be  in  England  now  that  April's  there  ") ;  the  spirited  "  How  they 
brought  the  Good  Newsfro^n  Ghent  to  Aix,"  as  well  as  longer  works 
like  Saul  and  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess.  In  1846  came  the  eighth 
and  last,  Luria,  and  A  Soul's  Tragedy.  With  this  number 
Browning  offered  an  explanation  of  the  meaning  of  the  title 
Bells  and  Pomegranates,  that  he  had  given  to  his  series.  "  I 
meant  by  that  title,"  he  says,  '*  to  indicate  an  endeavour  to- 
ward something  like  an  alternation  or  mixture,  of  music  with 
discoursing,  sound  with  sense,  poetry  with  thought ;  which  looks 
too  ambitious,  thus  expressed,  so  the  symbol  was  preferred." 
Pippa  Passes,  Browning's  biographer  tells  us,  "was  priced  first 
at  sixpence  ;  then,  the  sale  being  inconsiderable,  at  a  shilling, 
which  greatly  encouraged  the  sale  ;  and  so,  slowly,  up  to  half- 
a-crown,  at  which  the  price  of  each  number  finally  rested." 

549 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

The  year  in  which  the  last  number  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates 
was  published  was  the  most  eventful  one  of  Robert  Browning's 
life.  It  was  the  year  of  his  marriage  with  Miss  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  and  there  followed  fifteen  years,  spent  mostly  in  Italy, 
during  which  the  poet  was  partly  lost  in  the  husband.  The 
quantity  of  work  done  during  that  period  was  small,  though 
its  quality  was  of  the  very  finest. 

The  story  of  his  marriage  must  be  briefly  told. 

In  1839  Robert  Browning  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  John  Kenyon,  an  old  school-fellow  of  his  father.  This 
gentleman  was  a  cousin  of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  and,  as  was 
Browning  himself,  a  great  admirer  of  her  poetry.  From  Mr. 
Kenyon  Browning  learnt  something  of  Miss  Barrett's  history. 
She  had  been  a  healthy,  active  girl,  but  at  the  age  of  fifteen 
had  injured  her  spine  by  a  fall.  The  loss  of  her  elder  brother, 
who  was  drowned  at  Torquay  within  sight  of  the  house  where 
she  was  staying,  brought  on  an  illness  which,  combined  with 
the  effects  of  the  accident,  made  of  her  a  confirmed  invalid. 
She  came  back  to  I^ondon  and  for  years  she  lived  in  her  father's 
house,  confined  to  a  large,  darkened  room,  and  treated  by 
all  around  her  as  one  doomed  to  an  early  death.  Her  father, 
though  kind  and  indulgent  in  the  extreme,  was  of  a  peculiar 
temperament,  and,  once  having  made  up  his  mind  that  his 
daughter  was  to  be  an  invalid  for  life,  resented,  as  almost 
impious,  any  suggestion  that  means  should  be  tried  for  her 
restoration  to  health.  He  wept  over  her  and  prayed  over  her 
abundantly,  and  listened  with  a  kind  of  mournful  satisfaction 
to  the  doctors,  who  assured  him  that  there  was  no  hope  of  her 
recovery.  There  is  little  wonder  that  the  invalid  herself,  as 
well  as  the  other  members  of  the  family,  adopted  the  same 
view.  The  surprising  thing  is  that  Miss  Barrett  did  not  allow 
herself  to  be  made  morbid  or  self-pitying  by  the  very  un- 
healthy atmosphere  in  which  she  lived.  From  her  childhood 
she  had  been  fond  of  learning,  and  had  specially  delighted  in 
poetry.  *'  Most  of  my  events  and  nearly  all  my  intense 
pleasures,"  she  wrote  in  1843,  "  have  passed  in  my  thoughts,  I 
wrote  verses — as  I  daresay  many  have  done  who  never  wrote 


Mrs.  Browningfl 

Piio^io.  Eai3fy  Walker  Ltd. 


55° 


(BELLS  &  POMEGRANATES 
y  poems — very  early  ;  at  eight  years  old  and  earlier.  But, 
What  is  less  common,  the  early  fancy  turned  into  a  will,  and 
remained  with  me,  and  from  that  day  to  this  poetry  has  been 
a  distinct  object  with  me — an  object  to  read,  think  and  live 
for."  In  her  sick-room  she  bravely  set  herself  to  study  and  to 
write.  "  I  have  worked  at  poetry,"  she  says,  "  it  has  not  been 
with  me  reverie,  but  art.  As  the  physician  and  lawyer  work  at 
their  several  professions,  so  have  I,  and  so  do  I,  apply  to  mine." 
The  result  was  that  the  woman  who  believed  herself  to  be 
dying,  sent  out  from  her  sick-room  verse  of  such  strong  and 
vivid  quality  as  roused  Robert  Browning  to  rapturous  admira- 
tion. Mr.  Kenyon,  who  was  one  of  the  few  visitors  admitted 
to  the  sacredly  guarded  chamber,  and  was  called  by  Miss 
Barrett  her  "  fairy  godfather,"  saw  how  much  his  two  favourites 
had  in  common.  In  1844  he  gave  to  Robert  Browning,  who  had 
just  returned  from  a  stay  in  Italy,  a  copy  of  Miss  Barrett^s  latest 
volume,  which  contained,  among  other  poems,  Lady  Geraldine's 
Courtship.     The  reference  to  himself  in  this  poem 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying  did  I  read  aloud  the  poems, 

.  .  ,  From  Browning  some  "  Pomegranate,"  which,  if  cut  deep  down  the 

middle. 
Shows  a  iieart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a  veined  hmnanity — 

raised  his  admiration  to  something  of  a  more  personal  feeling, 
and  he  eagerly  responded  to  Mr.  Kenyon's  suggestion  that 
he  should  write  to  Miss  Barrett.  She  answered,  and  they 
exchanged  interesting  letters,  chiefly  on  literary  subjects,  for 
some  months.  Then  Browning  proposed  that  he  should  call 
at  her  father's  house  and  see  her.  The  suggestion  seems  to 
have  startled,  and  almost  frightened  Miss  Barrett.  She  wrote 
a  decided  though  not  an  unkind  refusal.  "  There  is  nothing  to 
see  in  me  ;  nor  to  hear  in  me.  I  never  learned  to  talk  as  you  do 
in  London ;  although  I  can  admire  that  brightness  of  carved 
speech  in  Mr.  Kenyon  and  others.  If  my  poetry  is  worth 
anything  to  any  eye,  it  is  the  flower  of  me.  I  have  lived 
most  and  been  most  happy  in  it,  and  so  it  has  all  my  colours  ; 
the  rest  of  me  is  nothing  but  a  root,  fit  for  the  ground  and  dark." 
But  Robert  Browning  was  not  easily  turned  from  a  purpose 

SSI 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

he  had  once  conceived.  He  managed  to  overcome  Miss 
Barrett's  objections,  and  in  May  1845,  he  paid  his  visit.  He 
at  once  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Barrett,  and  with  characteristic 
promptness  and  directness,  he  soon  afterward  made  his  pro- 
posal of  marriage.  To  all  the  Barrett  household  the  idea 
seemed  preposterous,  almost  wicked.  The  invalid  had  so 
long  been  looked  upon  as  one  set  apart  and  devoted  to  an  early 
death,  that  her  sisters,  when  they  heard  Robert  Browning  calmly 
talking  about  a  journey  to  Italy  and  an  active,  happy  life  there, 
held  their  breath  in  astounded  consternation.  To  Mr.  Barrett 
his  daughters  dared  say  nothing,  and  Robert  Browning  knew 
that  to  ask  his  consent  would  be  to  frustrate  the  whole  plan. 
He  persevered,  however,  in  his  proposals.  He  believed  that 
once  out  of  the  morbid,  unhealthy  atmosphere  in  which  she 
had  lived  so  long.  Miss  Barrett  would  improve,  and  he  was 
willing  to  take  the  risk,  great  as  it  was,  that  was  involved  in 
bringing  about  the  change.  Little  by  little  he  won  his  way. 
Miss  Barrett  was  brought  to  consent  to  a  secret  marriage.  On 
September  12,  1846,  she  became  Mrs.  Browning,  and  the  two 
started  for  Italy. 

Mrs.  Browning's  story  of  her  courtship  and  marriage  is  told 
with  wonderful  beauty  and  passion  in  her  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese  (which  were,  of  course,  not  from  the  Portuguese  at 
all).    We  will  quote  the  first : 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung         "^J^ . 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 

Those  of  my  own  Ufe,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware. 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair  ; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 

"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  !  " — "  Death,"  I  said.     But,  there. 

The  silver  answer  rang, — "  Not  Death,  but  I^ove." 

Robert  Browning's  confidence  was  justified.  When  the  first 
shock  was  over  his  wife  soon  began  to  show  signs  of  improve- 

552 


BELLS    &    POMEGRANATES 

ment,  and  before  long  was  leading  the  ordinary  life  of  a  normal 
human  being.  He  watched  over  her  with  a  tender  devotion 
that  absorbed  almost  all  his  thoughts  and  energies.  They 
wandered  from  one  Italian  city  to  another,  and  went  on 
expeditions  that  it  would  have  frightened  Mrs.  Browning  to 
think  of  a  year  before.  In  August  1847  she  wrote  an  account  of 
a  visit  to  the  monks  of  Vallombrossa.  "  Such  scenery,  such 
hills,  such  a  sea  of  hills  looking  alive  among  the  clouds — which 
rolled,  it  was  difficult  to  discern.  Such  fine  woods,  super- 
naturally  silent,  with  the  ground  black  as  ink.  There  were 
eagles  there  too,  and  there  was  no  road.  Robert  went  on  horse- 
back, and  Wilson  (the  maid)  and  I  were  drawn  on  a  sledge — (i.e. 
an  old  hamper,  a  basket  wine  hamper — without  a  wheel). 
Think  of  my  travelling  in  those  wild  places  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning  !  a  little  frightened,  dreadfully  tired,  but  in  an 
ecstasy  of  admiration."  This  was  a  change,  indeed,  from  the 
gloomy,  luxurious,  darkened  chamber  of  August  1846.  At 
the  end  of  another  year  she  was  still  writing  from  Florence. 
"  I  am  quite  well  again  and  strong.  Robert  and  I  go  out 
often  after  tea  in  a  wandering  walk  to  sit  in  the  lyOggia  and 
look  at  the  Perseus,  or,  better  still,  at  the  divine  sunsets  on 
the  Amo,  turning  it  to  pure  gold  under  the  bridges.  After 
more  than  twenty  months  of  marriage,  we  are  happier  than 
ever." 

In  March  1849  a  little  son  was  bom  to  them.  Mrs.  Browning 
made  at  this  time  one  more  effort  at  reconciliation  with  her 
father,  but  this  letter,  as  previous  ones  had  been,  was  returned 
unopened.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  young  man," 
Mr.  Barrett  said  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  remonstrated  with  him 
concerning  his  harsh  conduct,  '*  but  my  daughter  should  have 
been  thinking  of  another  world."  And  he  could  not  forgive  her 
for  being  well  and  happy  in  this. 

In  1855  Browning  published  a  collection  of  fifty  poems 
under  the  title  of  Men  and  Women.  In  this  volume  is  to  be 
found  much  of  his  best  work.  The  inspiration  which  had  come 
to  him  through  his  happy  marriage  and  through  the  life  he  had 
led  in  the  beautiful  country  he  loved,  glorified  his  poems,  and 

2N  553 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE  } 

softened  what  in  his  previous  work  had  sometimes  verged  on  : 
roughness.  In  1855  the  Brownings  came  to  England,  where  1 
they  remained  for  some  time,  making  friends  with  Tennyson  : 
and  Ruskin  and  other  notable  people.  At  the  end  of  the  year  ' 
they  were  in  Paris,  settled  for  the  winter.  It  is  here  that  we  j 
first  hear  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poem,  Aurora  Leigh,  and  of  the  j 
way  in  which  it  was  written.  "  She  wrote  in  pencil/'  we  are  ' 
told,  "  on  scraps  of  paper,  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa  in  her  sitting-  j 
room,  open  to  interruption  from  chance  visitors,  or  from  her  1 
little  omnipresent  son  ;  simply  hiding  the  paper  beside  her  if  ' 
anyone  came  in,  and  taking  it  up  again  when  she  was  free."  i 
Perhaps  this  is  why  Aurora  Leigh  is  so  full  of  inequalities. ; 
Noble  and  lofty  passages  stand  side  by  side  with  those  that' 
are  weak  and  inflated,  and  the  drop  from  the  sublime  to  the  ' 
ridiculous  is  sometimes  so  narrowly  escaped  that  the  reader  J 
feels  conscious  of  the  shock.  The  pure  and  high  tone  of  the  I 
poem  is  unmistakable.  Robert  Browning  admired  it  with  all  j 
his  heart.  He  believed  his  wife's  work  to  be  far  superior  to  J 
his  own,  and  looked  up  to  her  as  to  a  great  poet.  j 

Aurora  Leigh  was  published  in  1856.     It  was  dedicated  to 
John  Kenyon,  who  had  been  such  a  good  friend  to  both  Mrs. 
Browning  and  her  husband,  and  who  died  later  in  the  same 
year,  leaving  to  each  of  them  considerable  legacies.     The  next 
five  years  saw  no  work  of  importance  done  by  either  the 
husband  or  the  wife.     They  were  now  abundantly  supplied  with 
means  for  the  life  they  loved.     They  wandered  about  Italy, 
leading  an  idylHc  life  filled  with  the  delights  that  beautiful] 
scenery,  literature,  pictures,  music,  and  the  society  of  some  of  I 
the  most  eminent  men  and  women  of  the  day  could  give.     All 
went  well  until  the  opening  of  the  year  1861.     Then  Mrs.  J 
Browning's  health,  which  had  been  so  almost  miraculously^ 
restored  to  her,  began  to  fail.     As  the  spring  months  passed' 
she  declined  rapidly.     In  May  her  favourite  sister  died  ini 
England,  and  a  Httle  later  came  the  news  of  the  death  of! 
Cavour,  the  famous  Italian  statesman  in  whose  work  for  the] 
regeneration  of  his  country  Mrs.  Browning  was  passionatelyj 
interested.     These  two  sorrows  struck  hard  at  her  f aiHng  forces,  \ 
and  in  June  1861  she  died.  i 

554  I 

i 


AURORA    LEIGH 

Robert  Browning  was  left  alone.  The  ideal  and  perfect 
union  of  fifteen  years  was  at  an  end.  The  extent  of  his  loss 
and  of  his  grief  we  cannot  attempt  to  estimate.  After  the  first 
weeks  of  wild  mourning  he  came  back  to  England  and  settled 
in  lyondon  that  he  might  be  near  his  father  and  sister.  In  time 
he  resumed  his  old  social  habits  and  became  once  more  a 
familiar  figure  in  I^ondon  society.  In  1864  he  published  a 
collection  of  poems  called  Dramatis  PersoncB,  some  of  which 
had  been  written  before  his  wife's  death.  For  the  next  four 
years  he  was  occupied  with  the  composition  of  The  Ring  and  the 
Book,  a  poem  extending  to  nearly  twenty-five  thousand  lines. 
It  is  founded  on  the  account  of  a  Roman  murder  case  which 
Browning  read  in  a  *  square  old  yellow  Book '  that  he  picked 
up  on  a  bookstall  in  Rome,  and  tells  the  whole  story  twelve 
several  times,  each  time  from  the  point  of  view  of  one  of  the 
persons  concerned.  It  was  through  this  book  that  the  fame, 
which  had  been  so  long  denied  him,  came  at  last.  During  the 
years  he  had  spent  abroad  he  had  been  almost  forgotten  by 
the  public  in  England.  During  one  entire  six  months  of  the 
period  not  one  copy  of  any  of  his  works  had  been  sold.  But 
now  popularity  came  in  a  flood- tide,  when  the  poet  was  fifty- 
seven  years  old.  His  mother,  his  wife,  and  his  father,  those 
who  would  most  have  rejoiced  in  his  fame,  were  dead.  There 
were  left  to  him  only  his  sister,  and  his  son. 

His  triumph,  now  that  it  had  come,  was  complete.  A  crowd 
of  worshippers  gathered  round  him.  Browning  Societies  were 
formed  for  the  study  of  his  works.  The  Universities  offered 
him  their  highest  honours.  He  took  his  success  with  simple 
and  genuine  pleasure  that  he  had  no  thought  of  hiding.  His 
creative  power  showed  no  sign  of  diminished  vigour,  though 
the  music  of  his  verse  was  failing.  In  his  later  works  the 
psychological  element  became  somewhat  unduly  prominent, 
and  the  obscurity  which  had  marked  his  early  works  returned, 
with  some  lapses  into  coarse  and  rough  phrasing.  But  he 
wrote  with  almost  undiminished  energy,  and  the  last  volume  of 
his  poems,  Asolando  :  Fancies  and  Facts,  was  published  on  the 
day  of  his  death,  December  12,  1889. 

SSS 


CHAPTER  LV  i 

THYRSIS  :  CULTURE  AND  ANARCHY       , 

1 

THACKERAY,  Tennyson,  and  their  friends  'the  ' 
Apostles,'  are  in  some  sense  the  representatives  in 
Victorian  literature  of  the  University  of  Cambridge  ;  for  i 
although  her  teaching  had  little  influence  upon  them,  and  ; 
although  they  showed  in  after  days  little  devotion  to  her  ideals  ; 
or  to  her  memory,  yet  the  social  life  of  the  place  and  the  1 
friendships  formed  there,  affected  their  whole  lives.  But  in  ] 
a  different  and  in  a  far  more  special  sense  Matthew  Arnold  is  ^ 
the  representative  of  Oxford.  His  connexion  with  her  lasted  ? 
for  many  years,  he  was  in  perfect  sympathy  with  her  ideals  '■ 
and  her  policy,  and  was  proud  always  to  proclaim  himself  her  ; 
loyal  son.  Two  of  his  finest  poems,  The  Scholar  Gipsy  and  l 
Thyrsis,  describe  the  scenery  round  about  Oxford,  and  in  his  - 
prose  works  there  are  many  references  to  the  beautiful  city,  , 
so  venerable,  so  lovely,  so  serene,  that,  amid  the  turmoil  and  j 
clamour  of  modem  life,  stands  in  her  unchanging  quiet  beauty  I 
like  an  embodied  aspiration  toward  the  things  tha^  are  not  of  ] 
time  but  of  eternity.  "  Steeped  in  beauty  as  she  lies,"  he  ^ 
says,  "  spreading  her  gardens  to  the  moonlight,  and  whispering  j 
from  her  towers  the  last  enchantments  of  the  Middle  Ages,  who  3 
will  deny  that  Oxford,  by  her  ineffable  charm,  keeps  ever  ; 
calling  us  nearer  to  the  true  goal  of  all  of  us,  to  the  ideal,  to  j 
perfection — ^to  beauty,  in  a  word,  which  is  only  truth  seen  \ 
from  another  side."  The  work  which  he  here  ascribes  to  Oxford  \ 
is  the  work  that  Matthew  Arnold  himself  was  all  his  life  trying  '■•. 
to  do  :  to  draw  men  away  from  their  constant  care  for  material  \ 
things  and  to  fix  their  eyes  on  an  ideal  of  beauty  which,  faith-  " 
fully  and  joyfully  pursued,  should  fill  their  lives  with  sweet-  I 

556  I 

I 


IP  THYRSI  S 

ness  and  light.  His  aim  was,  in  the  main,  the  same  as  the  aim 
of  that  other  Oxford  man,  John  Ruskin,  who,  while  Arnold 
was  still  at  college,  was  teaching  the  world  in  his  Modem 
Painters  that,  "  Ideas  of  beauty  are  among  the  noblest  which 
can  be  presented  to  the  human  mind,  invariably  exalting  and 
purifying  it  according  to  their  degree."  Arnold  was  both  poet 
and  prophet  in  his  generation,  and  his  influence  though  not  as 
strongly  or  as  quickly  felt  as  that  of  Carlyle,  Ruskin,  Tennyson, 
and  Browning,  is  a  living  force  to-day,  and  shows  signs  of  in- 
creasing in  power  as  men  feel  more  and  more  the  need  of  help 
in  meeting  the  difficulties  and  answering  the  questions  that 
a  highly  complex  modern  civilization  presents. 

Matthew  Arnold  was  the  son  of  the  famous  Thomas  Arnold, 
Head  Master  of  Rugby,  who  is  perhaps  best  remembered  by 
the  general  public  from  the  attractive  and  lifelike  figure  that 
Thomas  Hughes  has  drawn  of  him  in  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays. 
From  Rugby  Matthew  Arnold  went  up  to  Oxford  in  184 1, 
when  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  In  those  days  reform  had 
not  yet  touched  Oxford.  The  classics  still  held  their  place 
as  the  chief  subject  of  study  and  the  University  still  turned  out 
those  fine  classical  scholars  of  whom  Matthew  Arnold  was  a 
typical  example.  The  clause  which  directed  that  all  under- 
graduates must  subscribe  to  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles  was  still 
in  force,  and  so,  theoretically,  Oxford  was  exclusively  Church 
of  England.  But  in  reality  there  was  little  unanimity  among 
her  members  and  much  of  their  time  was  taken  up,  we  are 
told,  in  discussions  as  to  which  was  the  true  Church  and  who 
were  its  apostles.  The  great  Tractarian  movement  was  at  its 
height.  Newman  was  preaching  to  crowds  of  excited  under- 
graduates at  the  University  Church  of  St.  Mary's,  and  his 
sweet  and  winning  personality  was  helping  to  gain  for  him  a 
band  of  devoted  disciples.  The  Tracts  for  the  Times,  in  which  the 
principles  of  the  High  Church  movement  were  set  forward, 
were  moving  Oxford  profoundly,  and  stirring  the  world  out- 
side. James  Anthony  Froude,  the  historian,  and  John  Keble, 
the  author  of  The  Christian  Year  were  among  the  leaders  of 
the  movement, 

5S7 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Into  this  heated  atmosphere  came  the  young  Matthew 
Arnold.  He  was  from  the  begmning  opposed  to  Tractarianism, 
and  Newman  seems  to  have  made  little  impression  upon  him. 
Of  the  details  of  the  points  of  contention  between  the  two 
parties  he  took  little  heed,  though  he  was  keenly  interested, 
then  and  throughout  his  life  in  the  broad  general  principles 
of  religion  and  in  the  criticism  and  interpretation  of  the  Bible. 

We  do  not  know  very  much  about  Arnold's  student  life  at 
Oxford.  In  1843  he  won  the  Newdigate  prize  with  a  poem  on 
Cromwell,  and  he  was  an  active  member  of  a  small  debating 
society  called  'the  Decade,'  whose  members  "fought  to  the 
stumps  of  their  intellects"  on  questions  that  interested  them. 
His  chief  friends  among  students  of  his  own  standing  were 
John  Duke  Coleridge,  afterward  I/ord  Chief  Justice  of  England, 
and  John  Campbell  Shairp,  afterward  Principal  of  St.  Andrews. 
But  his  chosen  and  best-loved  companion  was  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  who  was  four  years  older  than  Matthew  Arnold,  and  a 
Fellow  of  Oriel.  Clough  had  been  Dr.  Arnold's  favourite 
pupil  at  Rugby  and  was  strongly  attached  to  his  old  master. 
The  doctor's  death  in  1842  was  perhaps  even  a  greater  blow  to 
Clough  than  it  was  to  his  own  son.  The  two  drew  together 
over  this  common  sorrow,  and  although,  after  their  college  days 
they  rarely  met,  the  affectionate  friendship  between  them 
remained  unbroken  until  Clough's  death  in  1861.  Thyrsis, 
the  elegy  which  Arnold  wrote  in  memory  of  his  friend,  is,  in 
the  opinion  of  many  critics,  his  best  poem.  It  is  worthy  of  a 
place  in  the  front  rank  of  elegiac  poems  where  stand  Milton's 
Lycidas,  Shelley's  Adonais  and  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam. 
But  it  is  not  only  an  elegy,  it  is  also  a  piece  of  autobiography. 
It  tells  us  something  of  what  Arnold  was  in  those  early  days, 
and  of  what  he  felt  for  Oxford  and  how  it  entered  into  his  life. 
His  deep  love  for  the  old  familiar  scenes  is  simply  and  touch- 
ingly  shown. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  ehn-tree  crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames  ? 
The  signal  elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 
The  Vale,  the  tferee  lone  weirs,  the  youthful  TU^xu,e§  ? 

558 


Matthew  Arnold 

G.  F.  Watts 
Photo.  Fredk.  HoUyer,  London 


558 


THYRSIS 

This  winter-eve  is  warm, 
Humid  the  air  !   leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring. 

The  tender  purple  spra}''  on  copse  and  briers  ! 

And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening, 

Ivovely  all  times  she  hes,  lovely  to-night  ! — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim. 
Once  passed  I  blindfold  here  at  any  hour  ; 

Now  seldom  come  I  since  I  came  with  him. 

He  goes  on  to  lament  that  **  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went 
away  ''  from  "  our  happy  ground  "  into  the  world  outside  where 
storms  were  raging.  "  He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is 
dead."  The  cuckoo  will  come  again  in  "  the  sweet  spring 
days,  but  Thyrsis  will  be  seen  no  more.'*  "  I^et  me,"  says  his 
mourning  friend. 

Give  my  grief  its  hour 
In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topp'd  hill ! 

Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power  ? 
I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  dafEodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 

I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 
The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields, 
Above  by  Ensliam,  down  by  Sandford,  yields. 

And  what  sedged  brooks  are  'Thames's  tributaries. 

I  know  these  slopes  ;  who  knows  them  if  not  I  ?  " 

But  Thyrsis  is  gone 

And  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields  !   yet  will  I  not  despair. 

He  will  seek  that  "  fugitive  and  gracious  light "  that  "  does 
not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold,"  and  is  not  "  bought  and 
sold  in  the  world's  market." 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound  ; 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour  ! 

Men  gave  thee  nothing  ;   but  this  happy  quest. 
If  men  esteem 'd  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power. 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground. 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its  farms,  its  quiet  fields. 
Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocimd  youthfvil  time. 
Here  was  thine  height  of  strength,  thy  golden  prime  ! 
And  still  the  haimt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 

To  Arnold  the  '  haunt  beloved '  yielded  '  a  virtue '  to  the 
very  end  of  his  life.    When  he  wrote  Thyrsis  he  was  over 

559 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

forty  years  old.  He  had  published  several  small  volumes 
of  poetry,  and  was  gaining,  though  slowly,  a  reputation 
among  thoughtful,  cultured  men.  For  ten  years  he  had  held 
a  post  as  Government  Inspector  of  Schools,  and  was  a  recog- 
nized authority  on  education.  His  passionate  love  for  Oxford 
had  never  waned,  and  Oxford  had  recognized  his  loyalty  by 
electing  him  to  its  Professorship  of  Poetry.  Once  more  he  was 
in  close  touch  with  his  beloved  University,  and  he  worked 
happily  in  her  service  for  two  successive  periods  of  five  years 
each.  His  lectures  were  afterward  published,  and  form  an 
important  part  of  his  prose  writings.  By  this  time  the  reaction 
against  Tractarianism  had  set  in,  and  Arnold's  full  sympathy 
went  with  its  leaders.  His  sunny,  genial  nature  enabled  him 
to  conduct  a  controversy  without  bitterness,  and  he  did  a  great 
deal  toward  introducing  a  more  urbane  tone  into  controversial 
literature.  The  great  political  and  religious  leaders  on  both 
sides  respected  him  ;  he  became  familiar  with  the  men  of  the 
day  foremost  in  literature  and  learning.  Meanwhile,  although 
he  still  wrote  poetry,  his  growing  interest  in  politics,  educa- 
tion and  social  questions  led  him  to  try  to  make  his  views 
known  in  prose.  His  Culture  and  Anarchy  (1869)  is  the 
culmination  of  a  series  of  attacks  that  he  had  made  on  the 
vulgar  and  sordid  ideals  that  govern  the  lives  of  middle-class 
Englishmen.  He  begins  by  referring  to  the  scornful  fashion  in 
which  various  leading  men  of  the  day  had  referred  to  the 
*  cultuie'  which  he  had  advocated  as  an  elevating  and  trans- 
forming influence.  The  Daily  Telegraph,  he  says,  has  called 
him  "  an  elegant  Jeremiah  "  because  he  has  doubted  whether 
Reform  Bills  and  the  Repeal  of  the  Corn  I^aws  will  do  much 
toward  making  men's  lives  sweeter  or  happier.  It  is  evident, 
he  says,  that  his  critics  attach  to  the  word  '  culture  '  a  mean- 
ing different  from  that  which  he  has  in  mind,  and  he  therefore 
proceeds  to  give  his  conception  of  it.  In  his  Preface  to  the 
book  he  has  defined  culture  as  "  a  pursuit  of  our  total  perfec- 
tion by  means  of  getting  to  know,  on  all  the  matters  which  most 
concern  us,  the  best  which  has  been  thought  and  said  in  the 
world,"  and  on  this  he  enlarges,  "  It  moves/'  he  says,  "  by 
56G 


CULTURE    &    ANARCHY 

the  force  not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  passion  for 
pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and  social  passion  for 
doing  good.  .  .  .  There  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  have 
than  these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson  :  *  To  make  reason  and  the 
will  of  God  prevail.'  "  This  forms  the  text  of  his  whole  dis- 
course. He  shows  how  far  the  Enghshman's  ideal  of  "  doing 
as  one  likes  "  falls  below  this  aspiration  ;  he  points  out  how 
reason  would  dictate  a  complete  and  harmonious  development 
of  all  man's  powers,  instead  of  laying  undue  stress  upon  any 
one  phase— physical,  intellectual  or  spiritual.  Culture,  he 
says,  unites  the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and  light. 
Swift  in  his  Battle  of  the  Books  had  used  this  phrase  in  reference 
to  bees,  who  make  both  honey  and  wax.  Mr.  Arnold  borrowed 
it  and  it  has  become  specialized  for  the  purpose  in  which  he 
employed  it  ever  since.  In  the  same  way  he  has  given  us,  in  his 
chapter  on  the  three  classes  of  society,  two  terms  which  still 
retain  the  new  and  special  significance  which  he  applied  to  them. 
The  middle-class  he  calls  the  "  Philistines."  He  had  previously 
used  the  word  in  his  Essay  on  Heinrich  Heine.  "  Philistinism  I 
— we  have  not  the  expression  in  English.  Perhaps  we 
have  not  the  word  because  we  have  so  much  of  the  thing. 
.  .  .  The  French  have  adopted  the  term  epicicr  (grocer),  to 
designate  the  sort  of  being  whom  the  Germans  designate  by  the 
term  Philistine ;  but  the  French  term — besides  that  it  casts 
a  slur  upon  a  respectable  class,  composed  of  living  and  sus- 
ceptible members,  while  the  original  Philistines  are  dead  and 
buried  long  ago — is  really,  I  think,  in  itself  much  less  apt  and 
expressive  than  the  German  term.  Efforts  have  been  made  to 
obtain  in  English  some  term  equivalent  to  Philister  or  Spicier  : 
Mr.  Carlyle  has  made  several  such  efforts  :  '  respectability 
with  its  thousand  gigs,'  he  says  ;  well,  the  occupant  of  every 
one  of  these  gigs  is,  Mr.  Carlyle  means,  a  Philistine.  How- 
ever, this  word  respectable  is  far  too  valuable  a  word  to  be  thus 
perverted  from  its  proper  meaning  ;  if  the  English  are  ever  to 
have  a  word  for  the  thing  we  are  speaking  of — and  so  pro- 
digious are  the  changes  which  the  modern  spirit  is  introducing, 
that  even  we  English  shall,  perhaps,  one  day  come  to  want  such 

561 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

a  word — I  think  we  had  much  better  take  the  term  Philistine 
itself."  This  term  PhilisUne,  according  to  Mr.  Arnold  in 
Culture  and  Anarchy, "  gives  the  notion  of  something  particularly- 
stiff-necked  and  perverse  in  the  resistance  to  light  and  its 
children ;  and  therein  it  specially  suits  our  middle  class,  who 
not  only  do  not  pursue  sweetness  and  light,  but  who  even 
prefer  to  them  that  sort  of  machinery  of  business,  chapels, 
tea-meetings,  and  addresses  from  Mr.  Murphy  (a  Birmingham 
lecturer  of  the  day),  which  makes  up  the  dismal  and  illiberal 
life  on  which  I  have  so  often  touched.** 

The  upper  classes  or  the  aristocracy  Mr.  Arnold  calls  The 
Barbarians  because,  like  the  barbarians  "  who  reinvigorated 
and  renewed  our  worn-out  Europe,*'  they  have  in  an  extreme 
degree,  the  "  passion  for  doing  as  one  likes,*'  and  the  passion  for 
field  sports.  They  have  also  the  same  "  vigour,  good  looks, 
and  fine  complexions,**  the  same  "  high  spirit,  choice  manners 
and  distinguished  bearing,'*  the  same  lack  of  soul.  The  work- 
ing class,  "  which,  raw  and  half -developed,  has  long  lain  half- 
hidden  amidst  its  poverty  and  squalor,  and  is  now  issuing  from 
its  hiding  place  to  assert  an  Englishman* s  heaven-born  privilege 
of  doing  as  he  likes,  and  is  beginning  to  perplex  us  by  marching 
where  it  likes,  meeting  where  it  likes,  bawling  what  it  likes, 
breaking  what  it  likes — ^to  this  vast  residuum  we  may  with  great 
propriety  give  the  name  of  Populace.'' 

The  last  term  is  not  a  particularly  happy  one,  but  Barbarians 
and  Philistines  have,  ever  since  Culture  and  Anarchy  was 
pubHshed,  been  used  to  denote  the  two  classes  to  which  Matthew 
Arnold  applied  them.  This  point  of  nomenclature  being 
settled,  he  proceeds  to  address  himself  particularly  to  the 
Philistines.  It  is,  he  says,  the  class  to  which  he  himself  belongs, 
and  his  attention  has  naturally  been  concentrated  on  it ;  it 
"  has  been,  besides,  the  great  power  of  our  day,  and  has  had 
its  praises  sung  by  all  speakers  and  newspapers.**  In  words 
whose  light  and  playful  irony  does  not  hide  the  intense  feeHng 
underlying  them,  he  warns  this  triumphant  middle  class,  so 
justly  proud  of  the  great  things  it  has  achieved,  so  bent  on 
using  its  powers  to  gain  still  more  notable  victories,  of  the 
562 


CULTURE    &    ANARCHY 

danger  which  lies  in  a  smug  self-satisfaction.  He  urges  them 
to  make' an  effort  to  become  more  broad-minded,  more  liberal  in 
their  views,  to  let  reason,  not  prejudice,  govern  their  actions, 
to  forsake  anarchy  and  '  doing  as  one  likes,*  for  culture  and 
a  wide,  enlightened  submission  to  the  laws  which  have  been 
established  by  the  best  thought  of  all  ages.  *'  The  true  busi- 
ness of  the  friends  of  culture  is  ...  to  spread  the  belief  in 
right  reason  and  in  a  firm  intelligible  law  of  things,  and  to  get 
men  to  try,  in  preference  to  staunchly  acting  with  imperfect 
knowledge,  to  obtain  some  sounder  basis  of  knowledge  on 
which  to  act." 

It  is  noticeable  that,  in  Culture  and  Anarchy,  as  in  other  of 
his  works,  Matthew  Arnold  goes  lovingly  back  to  the  teaching 
of  his  own  old  University,  and  dwells  with  intense  satisfaction 
upon  the  thought  that  he  is  at  one  with  her  in  his  ideals  and  in 
his  aims.  "  Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many  faults  ; 
and  she  has  heavily  paid  for  them  in  defeat,  in  isolation,  in  want 
of  hold  upon  the  modem  world.  Yet  we  in  Oxford,  brought 
up  amidst  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  that  beautiful  place, 
have  not  failed  to  seize  one  truth — the  truth  that  beauty  and 
sweetness  are  essential  characters  of  a  complete  human  perfec- 
tion. When  I  insist  on  this,  I  am  all  in  the  faith  and  tradition 
of  Oxford,  I  say  boldly  that  this  our  sentiment  for  beauty  and 
sweetness,  our  sentiment  against  hideousness  and  rawness, 
has  been  at  the  bottom  of  our  attachment  to  so  many  beaten 
causes,  of  our  opposition  to  so  many  triumphant  movements. 
And  the  sentiment  is  true,  and  has  never  been  wholly  defeated, 
and  has  shown  its  power  even  in  its  defeat.  We  have  not  won 
our  political  battles,  we  have  not  carried  our  main  points,  we 
have  not  stopped  our  adversaries'  advance,  we  have  not 
marched  victoriously  with  the  modern  world  ;  but  we  have 
told  silently  upon  the  mind  of  the  country,  we  have  prepared 
currents  of  feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries'  position  when  it 
seems  gained,  we  have  kept  up  our  own  communications  with 
the  future.  ...  It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  sentiment  of 
Oxford  for  beauty  and  sweetness  conquers,  and  in  this  manner 
Jong  may  it  continue  to  conquer," 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

After  1867  Matthew  Arnold  wrote  little  poetry.  He  wrote 
various  essays  which  added  greatly  to  his  fame  as  a  prose 
writer,  and  he  worked  strenuously  in  the  cause  of  education.  He 
held  his  post  as  Inspector  of  Schools  until  April  1886,  thus 
completing  a  term  of  thirty-five  years.  In  the  schools  his 
courteous  and  kindly  manner  caused  him  to  be  regarded  as  a 
friend  rather  than  as  the  awe-inspiring,  omnipotent  being  of 
inspectorial  legend.  No  one  trembled  when  the  tall,  dignified, 
black-haired  gentleman  came  into  the  room,  and  even  the  single 
eye-glass  that  sometimes  misled  the  world  outside,  and  caused 
it  to  credit  Mr.  Arnold  with  '  superciliousness  '  could  not 
hide  from  the  more  discerning  children  the  kindly  light  of  his 
blue  eyes.  He  was  very  proud  of  the  compliment  that  a 
teacher  had  once  paid  him  in  saying  that  he  "  was  always 
gentle  and  patient  with  the  children,"  and  the  intense  feeling 
which  the  sight  of  the  neglected  little  ones  in  some  of  the  schools 
aroused  within  him  appears  in  several  of  his  writings. 

By  his  own  family  and  by  his  intimate  friends  Matthew 
Arnold  was  greatly  beloved.  As  a  public  man  he  made  no 
enemies ;  and  this,  when  we  remember  that  he  constantly 
wrote  on  subjects  upon  which  popular  feeling  ran  high,  is  a  great 
tribute  to  the  genial  urbanity  which  even  in  the  stress  of 
conflict,  did  not  desert  him.  His  wit,  as  Mr.  Herbert  Paul 
says,  had  plenty  of  salt,  but  little  pepper  in  it.  He  was 
essentially,  and  in  all  respects,  a  gentleman. 

In  April  1888  he  travelled  to  I^iverpool  to  meet  his  daughter 
who  was  returning  from  America.  On  the  15th  he  ran  to 
catch  a  tramcar,  and  died,  as  his  father  had  done,  quite  suddenly 
of  a  latent  affection  of  the  heart.  He  was  buried  in  the  little 
church  at  I^aleham,  near  to  which  his  boyhood  had  been  spent. 


564 


CHAPTER  LVI 

KIDNAPPED:    CATRIONA 

IN  the  year  1884  Robert  I/)uis  Stevenson,  then  thirty-four 
years  old,  and  already  noted  as  a  writer,  came  to  make 
his  home  for  a  time  at  Bournemouth.  The  winter  usually 
drove  him  abroad,  but  he  loved  England  dearly,  and  was 
tired  of  exile  ;  he  resolved,  therefore,  to  try  whether  the  kindly 
pine-scented  air  of  Bournemouth  would  not  bring  the  same 
comfort  to  his  weak  lungs  as  did  the  air  of  more  southerly 
regions.  He  and  his  wife  settled  in  a  house  which  was  a 
present  from  his  father  and  was  called  "  Skerry vore."  The 
Stevenson  family  had  been  for  generations  lighthouse  builders, 
and  the  lighthouse  at  Skerryvore  was  the  crowning  achieve- 
ment of  the  career  of  Thomas  Stevenson  (the  father).  Robert, 
or  Louis,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  had  in  his  youth,  felt  a 
strong  ambition  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  forbears,  and 
make  himself  famous  by  planting  some  great  beacon  amid 
dangerous  seas.  But  his  physical  strength  was  small,  though 
his  spirit  was  high  ;  and  there  came  a  counter-ambition  to  draw 
his  thoughts  away  from  his  first  love.  He  became  possessed 
with  the  desire  for  a  literary  career,  and  gave  all  his  thoughts 
to  preparing  himself  for  it.  He  was  scolded  for  being  an  idle 
boy  because  he  spent  his  time  scribbling  and  musing  instead  of 
doing  his  lessons,  but  he  was,  really,  very  busy.  He  forgot  all 
about  lighthouse  building  in  the  fascinating  attempt  to 
imitate  the  style  of  such  great  writers  as  Hazlitt,  Lamb, 
Browne,  Defoe  and  Montaigne  ;  and  found  thus  playing  the 
*  sedulous  ape '  as  interesting  a  game  as  could  be  devised. 
The  desire  for  a  life  of  adventure  and  action,  however,  returned 
at  intervals,  and  his  books  show  how  fully  he  understood  and 

565 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

entered  into  the  delights  of  that  free,  roving  existence,  full 
of  danger  and  hardship,  which  could  never  be  his.  Early  in  his 
life  he  developed  a  serious  affection  of  the  lungs  ;  and  so,  as 
has  been  said,  we  find  him  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  in  the 
thick  of  the  battle  that  he  had  fought  for  many  years  with 
such  valiant  cheerfulness,  against  a  fatal  disease.  He  had 
upheld  his  right  to  work  even  when  the  enemy  had  declared 
work  to  be  impossible  ;  had  baffled  and  circumvented  it  in  all 
manner  of  whimsical  ways  ;  had  jumped  up  light-heartedly  after 
attacks  which  it  had  deemed  final  and  decisive  ;  and  had 
flourished  in  its  face  the  trophies  won  by  sheer  pluck  and 
daring  in  the  deadly  struggle.  He  had  written  essays,  poems, 
stories,  including  the  famous  and  inimitable  Treasure  Island. 
Such  had  been  the  life  of  Robert  lyouis  Stevenson,  and  such  it 
remained  until  the  end. 

During  the  three  years  spent  at  Bournemouth  the  fight 
was  even  harder  than  usual.  For  a  great  part  of  the  time 
Stevenson  was  unable  to  leave  the  house.  Yet  his  high  spirits 
never  deserted  him,  or  if  they  did  he  let  none  of  those  around 
him  know  of  the  defection,  but  worked  cheerily  on.  "  Our 
drawing-room,"  he  wrote,  "  is  now  a  place  so  beautiful  that 
it's  like  eating  to  sit  in  it.  No  other  room  is  so  lovely  in  the 
world  ;  there  I  sit  like  an  old  Irish  beggarman's  cast-off 
bauchle  in  a  palace  throne-room.  Incongruity  never  went  so 
far  ;  I  blush  for  the  figure  I  cut  in  such  a  bower."  The 
*  figure '  as  described  for  us  by  his  friends,  is  as  gallant  and 
personable  a  one  as  need  be.  A  form,  painfully  thin,  yet  full 
of  life  and  energy,  whose  eager,  restless  movements  had  always 
a  wonderful  grace  ;  a  spare,  brown  face,  with  eyes  of  deepest 
brown,  set  far  apart,  and  shaded  by  brown  hair — these  things 
can  be  described  so  that  we  can  form  some  idea  of  the  out- 
ward man.  But  no  words,  so  those  who  loved  him  say,  can 
convey  any  sense  of  the  charm  which  Robert  I^ouis  Stevenson 
exercised  over  all  who  came  near  him.  Something  of  it  is  pre- 
served in  his  works,  and  especially  in  his  familiar  essays  and 
stories  of  personal  experiences.  No  one  surely  could  help 
loving  the  man  who  travelled  "  With  a  donkey  in  the  Cevennes," 
566 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Photo.  Mansell  &  Co. 


566 


KIDNAPPED    £5?    CATRIONA 

who  suffered  such  humorous  agonies  from  his  Modestine's 
shortcomings,  and  who  was  so  full  and  brimming  over  with 
the  vagrant  spirit  of  careless  enjoyment  which  belongs  to  the 
true  wanderer.  There  was  no  experience  from  which  Steven- 
son could  not  extract  some  enjoyment.  Even  a  sick  man's 
three  days'  journey  "  Across  the  Plains  "  in  a  crowded  emigrant 
train  with  companions  who  were  offensive  to  every  sense,  was 
something  to  which  memory  could  return  with  intensest 
pleasure.  "  I  never  was  bored  in  my  life,"  he  once  said  ;  and 
this  is  perhaps  one  reason  why  he  always  charmed  everybody 
else. 

It  is  marvellous  that  work  of  which  so  much  was  done  in 
pain  and  weariness,  with  only  the  indomitable  will  keeping  the 
frail  body  to  its  task,  should  be  so  free  from  any  suggestion  of 
effort  and  should  have  such  a  delightful  humorous  under- 
tone. At  Bournemouth  Stevenson  finished,  in  the  spring  of 
1885,  in  the  intervals  between  a  series  of  painful  and  prostrat- 
ing attacks,  the  poems,  so  full  of  the  true  spirit  of  childhood, 
that  make  up  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.  He  followed  these 
by  the  story  of  Prince  Otto,  and  by  the  weird  and  powerful 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  which  was  written  in  three  days, 
under  the  stress  of  strong  excitement.  In  April  he  had  begun 
a  story  for  boys,  but  this  had  been  laid  aside  for  a  time.  When 
the  completion  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  allowed  Stevenson 
to  regain  his  normal  mental  state  he  turned  to  this  story  once 
more,  and  soon  became  absorbed  in  tracing  the  adventures  of 
the  hero,  David  Balfour,  and  his  fascinating  comrade  the 
Jacobite  adventurer,  Alan  Breck.  "  In  one  of  my  books," 
Stevenson  wrote,  "  and  in  one  only,  the  characters  took  the 
bit  in  their  teeth,  all  at  once  they  became  detached  from  the 
flat  paper,  they  turned  their  backs  on  me  and  walked  off 
bodily,  and  from  that  time  my  task  was  stenographic— it  was 
they  who  spoke,  it  was  they  who  wrote  the  remainder  of  the 
story."  The  story  thus  written  he  called  Kidnapped :  Being 
the  Adventures  of  David  Balfour.  "  How  he  was  kidnapped  and 
cast  away  ;  his  sufferings  in  a  Desert  Isle  ;  his  Journey  in 
the   West  Highlands;    his  Acquaintance   with  Alan   Breck 

567 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

Stewart  and  other  notorious  Highland  Jacobites  ;  with  all  that 
he  Suffered  at  the  hands  of  his  Uncle,  Ebenezer  Balfour  of 
Shaws,  falsely  so-called ;  Written  by  Himself,  and  now  set 
forth  by  Robert  I^uis  Stevenson." 

Kidnapped  took  five  months  to  write,  and  before  it  was 
finished  fresh  trouble  had  come  to  its  author.  His  father  had 
died — ^the  stern,  loving,  generous  Scotch  father,  who  had  felt 
so  deeply  his  son's  desertion  of  the  family  calling  for  the 
frivolous  trade  of  literature,  and  had  suffered  so  much  from 
his  conviction  that  Robert  was  a  ne'er-do-well,  unworthy  of  the 
good  stock  from  which  he  came.  His  son  felt  his  death  keenly, 
and  mourned  afresh  over  the  years  of  estrangement,  which, 
though  they  had  been  followed  by  complete  reconciliation, 
could  never  be  wiped  out.  Grief  fought  on  the  side  of  the 
enemy,  and  things  went  very  hardly  for  poor  Robert  I^ouis 
Stevenson.  He  struggled  on  and  tried  to  finish  his  book, 
though  he  wrote,  he  tells  us,  without  interest  and  without 
inspiration.  At  last  when  he  had  brought  his  hero  safely  back 
from  his  Highland  wanderings  to  Edinburgh,  the  story  came  to 
an  abrupt  end.  He  could  write  no  more  ;  the  remainder  of 
his  plan  could  not  then  be  carried  out. 

Kidnapped  was  published  in  Young  Folks,  and  ran  from  May 
to  July.  Meanwhile  its  author  was  engaged  in  another 
desperate  struggle  with  his  lifelong  enemy.  Severe  attacks  of 
haemorrhage  of  the  lungs  left  him  weak  and  exhausted,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  spring  of  1886  that  his  condition  began  to 
improve.  He  was  able,  however,  to  take  some  interest  in  the 
fate  of  his  book,  which  had  been  very  well  received.  It  is  a 
real  boy's  tale,  so  full  of  exciting  adventures  and  hair-breadth 
escapes  and  deeds  of  surpassing  courage  that  at  a  first  reading 
one  is  too  interested  to  be  conscious  of  the  fine  qualities  that 
raise  it  above  most  books  of  its  class — ^the  quiet  Scottish 
humour,  so  unobtrusive,  yet  so  irresistible,  the  truth  of  even 
the  slightest  of  its  character  sketches,  the  beauty  of  its  language. 
By  the  end  of  1886  it  was  clear  that  the  Bournemouth  experi- 
ment had  failed,  and  that  Stevenson  must  once  more  seek  for 
health  out  of  England.  He  went  first  to  New  York,  and  from 
568 


KIDNAPPED    &    CATRIONA 

there  to  a  sanatorium  in  the  Adirondacks.  Here  he  slowly- 
improved,  and  with  the  first  return  of  working  power  began  to 
write  a  new  story.  The  Master  of  Ballantrae.  A  plan  for  his 
future  life  was  forming  itself  in  his  brain,  and  early  in  1888  he 
took  the  first  step  toward  its  fulfilment  by  hiring  a  yacht  for  a 
cruise  among  the  Pacific  Islands.  The  death  of  his  father,  and 
the  growing  popularity  of  his  works  had  made  his  circum- 
stances easier  ;  and  for  three  years  he  and  his  wife  sailed  about 
the  Pacific,  making  stays  of  varying  lengths  at  different  islands, 
and  looking  out  for  a  permanent  home.  "  This  climate ; 
these  voyagings  ;  these  landfalls  at  dawn  ;  new  islands  peak- 
ing from  the  morning  bank  ;  new  forested  harbours  ;  new 
passing  alarms  of  squalls  and  surf  ;  new  interests  of  gentle 
natives — the  whole  tale  of  my  life  is  better  to  me  than  any 
poem."  So  spoke  the  man  whose  zest  of  living  no  suffering 
and  no  disappointment  could  destroy.  He  was  driven  out 
of  the  land  he  loved,  and  to  which  he  had  clung  so  long  as  a 
chance  of  his  being  able  to  live  in  it  remained  ;  but  he  went, 
not  as  to  exile,  but  in  a  holiday  spirit  of  enjoyment. 

He  decided  at  length  to  make  his  home  in  Samoa,  a  group  of 
islands  situated  toward  the  centre  of  the  South  Pacific  Ocean. 
On  the  largest  of  these,  Upoli,  which  measures  forty-five  miles 
by  eleven,  he  bought  a  piece  of  land.  It  was  called  Vailima, 
or  the  Five  Waters,  and  laj'-  between  two  streams.  The 
western  stream  broadened  out  in  one  place  into  a  great  pool, 
arched  with  orange-trees,  and  a  few  hundred  yards  farther  on  it 
fell  forty  or  fifty  feet  over  the  rocks.  Behind  it  rose  the  forest- 
covered  Vasa  Mountains.  The  eastern  stream,  which  was  the 
chief  river  of  the  island,  ran  through  a  deep  and  beautiful  valley. 
There  was  no  road  leading  to  Vailima,  or  any  means  of  com- 
munication until  Stevenson  made  a  track  to  the  nearest  village. 
The  house  was  built  amid  a  grove  of  banyan-trees,  and  a  rugged, 
narrow,  winding  path  bordered  by  limes  led  up  to  it,  "  almost 
as  if  it  was  leading  to  I^yonesse,  and  you  might  see  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  giant  looking  in."  It  was  a  two-story  house  of 
dark  green  wood,  with  a  red  roof  made  of  corrugated  iron  upon 
which  the  rain  beat  like  thunder.     Stevenson's  study  and  bed- 

20  S^9 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

room  was  called  the  "  martin's  nest  room/'  and  was  made  out 
of  a  part  of  the  veranda,  roofed  in.  One  window  looked  out 
over  the  sea,  the  other  over  the  Vasa  Mountains.  For  furniture 
there  was  a  plain  deal  table,  a  bedstead,  two  chairs,  and  book- 
cases. Here  he  worked  hard  all  the  morning,  rising  at  six,  and 
having  his  breakfast  served  to  him  by  one  of  the  silent,  bare- 
footed native  servants,  who  soon  learnt  to  adore  their  new 
master — ^known  in  the  island  as  "  Tusitala."  ^  "  The  morning  is, 
ah,  such  a  morning  as  you  have  never  seen,"  he  wrote  to  one  of 
his  friends  in  England,  '-heaven  upon  earth  for  sweetness, 
freshness,  depth  upon  depth  of  unimaginable  colour  and  a  huge 
silence  broken  at  this  moment  only  by  the  far-away  murmur 
of  the  Pacific,  and  the  rich  piping  of  a  single  bird." 

Stevenson  soon  established  a  sort  of  feudal  rule  on  the  island. 
The  natives  looked  up  to  him  with  reverence  and  brought  to 
him  all  their  disputes  for  settlement.  He  worked  really  hard 
for  the  well-being  of  his  little  principality,  and  was  rewarded 
by  the  gratitude  and  devotion  of  those  whom  he  served.  In  the 
pure  soft  air  of  Samoa  he  regained  his  health.  He  took  long 
walks  over  the  island,  and  interested  himself  in  the  cultivation 
of  his  estate,  working  with  glee  beside  his  wilHng  servants. 

In  1892  he  took  up  the  unfinished  history  of  David  Balfour, 
and  wrote  a  sequel  to  Kidnapped.  In  this  volume  the  heroine 
appears  for  the  first  time,  and  gives  her  name,  Catriona,  as  its 
title.  Catriona,  being  Memoirs  of  the  Further  Adventures  of 
David  Balfour  at  Home  and  Abroad.  In  which  is  set  forward 
his  Misfortunes  anent  the  Appin  Murder ;  his  Troubles  with 
lyord  Advocate  Grant ;  Captivity  on  the  Bass  Rock  ;  Journey 
into  Holland  and  France ;  and  singular  relations  with  James 
More  Drummond  or  MacGregor,  a  son  of  the  notorious  Rob 
Roy,  and  his  daughter  Catriona.  I^ike  most  sequels  it  perhaps 
falls  a  little  below  the  original  work,  but  Catriona  herself  is  the 
most  charming  of  Scottish  lasses,  and  David  Balfour  as  a  young 
man  is  no  less  interesting  than  David  Balfour  as  a  boy. 

Stevenson's  death  came  quite  suddenly  in  1894.  On 
December  3  he  had  been  working  all  the  morning  at  his  book 

1  "  Teller  of  Tales  " 

570 


KIDNAPPED    &    CATRIONA 

Weir  of  Hermiston,  and  in  the  afternoon  was  sitting  in  the 
veranda  talking  to  his  wife.  Suddenly  he  put  his  hands  to 
his  head,  cried  out  "  What's  that  ?  '*  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
He  remained  unconscious  until  a  little  past  nine  in  the  evening, 
when  he  died.  He  was  buried  among  the  Samoan  mountains 
and  was  carried  to  his  grave  by  the  natives,  who  loved,  and 
mourned  for  him. 

*'  Nothing  more  picturesque  can  be  imagined  than  the  narrow 
ledge  that  forms  the  summit  of  Vasa,  a  place  no  wider  than  a 
room,  and  flat  as  a  table.  On  either  side  the  land  descends 
precipitately  ;  in  front  lies  the  vast  ocean  and  the  surge-swept 
reefs  ;  to  the  right  and  left  green  mountains  rise,  densely 
covered  with  primeval  forest."  Here  Robert  I^ouis  Stevenson 
lies,  and  on  his  grave  are  two  inscriptions,  First,  in  Samoan,  the 
words,  "  The  Tomb  of  Tusitala,"  and  the  verse  from  the  Book 
of  Ruth,  beginning,  "  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go."  Then,  in 
English,  the  name,  age  and  date,  and  his  own  "  Requiem." 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


571 


INDEX 


A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that,  393 

Abbot,  The,  454 

Abbotsford,  Sir  Walter  Scott  settles 
at.  453.  454 

Absalom  and  Achitophel,  248-54 

Across  the  Plains,  567 

Acting  companies,  125-26 

Adam,  in  ^s  You  Like  It,  166 

Adam  Bede,  511 

Addison,  Joseph,  and  The  Tatler, 
272-74 ;  early  life,  272-73  ;  and  The 
Spectator,  275-81  ;  and  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley,  277 ;  Cato,  281  ; 
marriage,  281  ;  death,  282  ;  Pope 
and,  283,  285  ;  and  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock^  285  ;   and  Swift,  306 

Adonais,  by  Shelley,  427,  439;  re- 
ferred to,  558 

Advancement  of  Learning,  TA*.  199-204 

Ae  fond  kiss,  393 

^olian  Harp,  The,  by  Coleridge,  403 

Msop's  Fables,  Caxton 'sedition of,  102 

Agnes  Grey,  496,  498 

Aidan,  27 

Albert  of  Aix,  Mandeville's  indebted- 
ness, to,  97 

Albinus  of  Canterbury,  and  Bede,  42 

Alchemist,  The,  207,  208-11 

Aldgate,  Chaucer  living  at,  82,  84 

Alexander,  Romance  of,  49 

Alfred  the  Great,  i6  ;  procures  copies 
of  Caedmon's  work,  30  ;  transla- 
tion of  Bede's  Ecclesiastical  His- 
tory, 39 ;  succeeds  to  the  throne, 
46 ;  and  the  English  Chronicle,  46, 
47  ;  introduces  teachers  from  the 
Continent,  46 ;  translation  of  parts 
of  the  Bible,  90 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well.  167 

Alleyn,  Edward,  actor,  138 

Altar,  The,  219 

Amelia,  332 

Ananias,  in  The  Alchemist,  209-10 

Ancient  Mariner,  The,  405,  406,  410 

Anglicanism,  and  literature  of  the 
early  sixteenth  century,  195  ;  and 
George  Herbert  and  Ferrar,  221 


Anglo-Saxon  metre,  15 

Anglo-Saxon  period,  15-48 

Anne  of  Geier stein,  455 

Annus  Mirabilis,  247,  248 

Anthology,  the  first  English,  38 

Antiquary,  The,  454 

Apollo  Room,  the,  212 

Apostles,  the  Cambridge,  534,  556 

Arblay,  d',  Fanny,  see  Burney,  Fanny 

Arbuthnot,  John,  309 

Arcades,  by  Milton,  237 

Arcadia,  Sidney's,  128,  324 

Arden,  Forest  of,  154,  165 

Ariel,  to  Miranda  take,  427 

Ariel,  in  The  Tempest,  170 

Armour,  Jean,  and  Burns,  389,  392 

Arnold,  Matthew,  life  and  works, 
556-64 ;  at  Oxford,  557 ;  and 
Tractarianism,  558,  560 ;  and 
Clough,  558 ;  Thyrsis,  558-59  ; 
official  appointments,  prose  writ- 
ings, 560 ;  on  the  Phihstines, 
561-63  ;  as  School  Inspector, 
564  ;    death,  564 

Arnold,  Thomas,  557,  558 

Arthur,  King,  49,  64  ;  Milton  pro- 
poses to  write  on,  238.  See  also 
Idylls  of  the  King,  Morte  d' Arthur 

Arthur,  Prince,  in  Shakespeare's  King 
John,  163 

Arthurian  romances,  the,  64 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day,  174,  177 

As  You  Like  It,  164,  165-66,  176 

Asolando  :   Fancies  and  Facts,  555 

Astresa  Redux,  247 

Astrophel,  Sidney's,  129-32  ;  Colin 
Clout's  Mournful  Ditty  on  Death,!^^ 

Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  79 

Augustan  Age,  the,  265.  315.  3 1 9,  321 

Augustine,  St,  influence  on  Utopia,io^ 

Auld  Lang  Syne,  393 

Aurora  Leigh,  by  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  554 

Austen,  Jane,  440-47  ;  early  writings, 
441 ;  at  Bath,  443 ;  at  Southampton, 
444  ;  her  critical  faculty,  445  ;  hter- 
ary  characteristics,  446;  death,  447 

573 


INDEX 


Austen,  I«ady,  Cowpcr  and,  379-80 
Authorized  Version  of  the  Bible,  the, 

118  ;   influence  on  Milton,  235 
Autumn,  by  James  Thomson,  318 
Ajte,  the,  178 
Axarias,  37 

Bacon,  Francis,  influenced  by  Sir 
Thomas  More,  103  ;  effect  of  Re- 
naissance on,  195  ;  works  of,  197- 
204 ;  his  character,  197 ;  and 
James  I,  200,  202  ;  becomes  Lord 
Chancellor,  203  ;  his  fall  and  death, 
204 

Bacon,  Sir  Nicholas,  121 

Bacon,  Roger,  legend  of,  140 

Bale,  Bishop,  24 

Balfour.David,  in  J^z^Ma/)^5^,567,  570 

Balin  and  Balan,  by  Tennyson,  542 

Ballad  on  a  Wedding,  214 

Ballads,  in  the  English  Chronicle,  46, 

47 
Ballads  of  Policeman  X,  473 
Ballads  of  the  Border,  448 
Banks  o'  Boon,  The,  393 
Barbarians,  Matthew  Arnold's  use  of 

the  term,  562 
Bard,  The,  319 

Bard's  Epitaph.  The,  by  Burns,  394 
Barndby  Rudge,  429 
Barnefield,  Richard,  174,  177 
Barrett,    Elizabeth,    see    Browning, 

Ehzabeth  Barrett 
Barry  Lyndon,  473 
Bartholomew  Fair,  206 
Battle  of  the  Books,  The,  302  ;  referred 

to,  561 
Beatrice  In  Much  Ado,  and  Euphu- 
ism, 124,  166 
Beaumont,  Francis,  his  Unes  on  the 

Mermaid  Tavern,  167 
Becket,  by  Tennyson,  543 
Bede,  the  Venerable,  15,  40-44  ;    his 

last  days,  43-44  ;   his  Ecclesiastical 

History,  39-44  ;    quoted,  27  ;    and 

the  English  Chronicle,  47 
Bee,  The,  by  Goldsmith,  348 
Bells     and    Pomegranates,     548-50 ; 

meaning  of  the  title,  549 
Bell,  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton,  495,  498 
Belsavage      Playhouse,      the,      Dr. 

Faustus  acted  at,  138,  187 
Bemexton,  George  Herbert  at,  215 

574 


Benedict,  in  Much  Ado,  and  Euphu-  . 
ism,  125 

Beowulf,   17-25 ;    historical   founda- 
tion, 20  ;    arrival  in  England,  21  ;  ; 
Christian    elements    in,    22,    32  ;  •; 
referred  to,  61,  315 

Betrothed,  The,  454  i 

Bible,    Wiclif's    translation  of,    50,  i 

87-92  ;   influence  of  language,  87  ;  - 

early    English    versllns    of,     90 ;  ' 

Purvey 's   revision,    91  ;     MSS.    of  I 

Wiclif's,    92  ;     Tindale's    transla-  ' 

tionof,  1 01, 1 1 4-1 8  ;  the  Mazarine,  - 

102  ;  translation  officially  ordered,  j 

117;     Coverdale's    version,    117;  ; 

the  Authorized  Version,  118  ;    and  | 
Milton,   235 ;     and  Cowper,   373 ; 

influence  on  Ruskin,  524  i 

"  Bickerstaff,  Isaac,"  267,  268,  271, 

272,  274  '■ 

Big-endian  controversy,  the,  311 

Biographia  Literaria,  Coleridge's,  403, 

459  I 

Biscop,  Benedict,  40,  41  ] 

Black  Dwarf,  The,  454  i 

Blackwood's    Magazine    and    Keats*  i 

Endymion,  437  ;    publishes  George  i 

Ehot's  first  fiction,  508  ' 

Blake,  William,  319  J 

Blenheim,    Battle  of,   celebrated  by  i 

Addison,  273 

Blot  in  the  Scutcheon,  A,  549  \ 

Blount,  Edward,  on  Euphues,  124  | 

Bodenham,  John,  174  | 
Boileau,  Pope's  indebtedness  to,  285 

Boliugbroke,   Lord,   and  Pope,   288,  1 

289  ;   letter  from  Swift  to,  307 
Bolton,  Edmund,  174 

Bos  well,    James,    and   "  The   Club,"  i 

339  ;   his  Life  of  Johnson,  339  ;   on  \ 

Goldsmith,  345  ;    reports    a  story  j 

of  Gibbon  and  Johnson,  354  \ 

Bourgogne,  Jean  de,  94  \ 

Bowles,   William  Lisle,  influence  on  i 

Coleridge,  399  j 

Brawne,  Fanny,  and  Keats,  438  ] 

Brazen  head,  the  Marvellous,  140-41  ■ 

Breck,  Alan,  in  Kidnapped,  567  '■ 

Bretigny,  Treaty  of,  Chaucer  released  \ 

on,  80 

Breton,  Nicholas,   and  Tottell's  Mis-  \ 

cellany,  174  | 

Bridal  of  Triermain,  The,  453  • 


INDEX 


Bride  of  Abydos,  The,  415,  416 
Bride  of  Lammertnoor ,  The,  454 
British  Commerce,  Addison  on,  280 
Brohdingnag,  A   Voyage  to,  312 
Bronte,  Anne,  491,  494,  496,  500 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  on  Pride  and  Pre- 
judice, 446  ;    on  Thackeray,  476  ; 
life  and  works,  490-501  ;  early  life, 
490-93 :    literary    aspirations  dis- 
couraged >by  Southey,   494  ;    goes 
to    Brussels,    494 ;     poems     pub- 
lished,  495  ;    manner  of  working, 
497  I    Jane  Eyre  published,   498  ; 
attacks  on  its  morality,  499  ;  visits 
London,  500  ;  marriage,  death,  501 
Bronte,  Branwell,  491,  494,  495,  496, 

497.  500 
Bronte,  Emily,  492,  495,  496,  500 
Brooke,  Stopford,  on  Hooker,  189 
Brother  and  Sister  Sonnets,  503 
Brotherhood  Club,  the,  306 
Browning,    Elizabeth    Barrett,    550  ; 
early    years.     550  ;      poems,     and 
Browning's  admiration,  551  ;  their 
marriage,    552  ;     in    Italy,    553  ; 
death,  554 
Browning,    Robert,    life   and   works, 
544-55  ;      early     admiration     for 
Shelley,    544  ;     and    Keats,    545  ; 
early  publications,  his  "  obscurity," 
546-47  ;    Bells    and  Pomegranates, 
548-50 ;     is   given   Miss   Barrett's 
poetry  to  read,  551  ;    meets,  and 
marries,  her,  552  ;    in  Italy,  553  ; 
death  of  Mrs.  Browning,  554  ;    re- 
turn to  England,  later  work,  fame, 
death.  555 
Buccleuch,     Duchess     of,     and     Sir 

Walter  Scott,  451 
Buckingham,  Duke  of,  251 
Bungay,  Friar,  see  Friar  Bacon 
Bunyan,  John,  255-64 
Burbage,  Richard,  169 
Burke,   Edmund,   and  "  The  Club," 
339.    349  '•     and    Fanny    Bumey's 
Evelina,  370 
Burleigh,  Lord,  see  Cecil,  William 
Burney,    Dr.,    363  ;     his    History   of 
Music,   366,   367  ;    reads  Evelina, 

369 
Burney,    Fanny,     362-71  ;      youth, 
362  ;  her  writing  discouraged,  364  ; 
the  first  draft  of  Evelina,  364  ;   her 


diary,  365,  Evelina,  366-70 ;  at- 
tempt to  find  a  publisher,  367 ; 
completion  and  publication,  368  ; 
appointment  in  the  Royal  House- 
hold, marriage,  Camilla,  370,  440  ; 
death,  371  ;  influence  on  Jane 
Austen,  441 

Burns,  Robert,  life  and  works,  384- 
94  ;  hard  upbringing,  384  ;  educa- 
tion and  reading,  385  ;  his  first 
songs,  386  ;  life  at  Irvine,  387  ; 
attacks  on  the  Church,  388  ; 
Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  388  ;  at 
Mossgiel,  Jean  Armour,  389  ;  in- 
tends to  emigrate,  publication  of 
Poems,  goes  to  Edinburgh,  390  ; 
and  Scott,  personal  description  of, 
2nd  edition  of  Poems,  391  ;  mar- 
riage, dissipation,  at  EUisland,  392  ; 
death,  394  ;    and  Nature,  398 

But,  John,  68  n 

Button's  coffee-house,  283 

Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel,  Lord, 
life  and  works,  412-29  ;  early 
years,  412,  414 ;  travels,  415  ; 
success,  415;  his  poses  of  melancholy 
imitated,  416;  unhappy  marriage, 
416  ;  leaves  England  finally,  417  ; 
joins  Shelley  in  Switzerland,  418  ; 
dissipations,  421  ;  joined  by  Shel- 
ley,  422  ;     at  Leghorn,   yachting, 

427  ;    at  the  cremation  of  Shelley, 

428  ;  and  the  Greek  War,  429  ; 
death,  429 

Cabot,  Sebastian,  181,  183,  185 

Caedmon,  27-32  ;  vision  of,  28  ;  his 
Genesis,  29,  31,  90 ;  influences 
Cynewulf,  34 

Caesar's  Commentaries,  Mandeville's 
indebtedness  to,  97 

Calvin,  187 

Camelot,  64 

Camilla.  370,  440,  441 

Campaign,  The,  273 

Campion,  Thomas,  178 

Canterbury  Tales.  The.  75,  76,  79  ; 
Chaucer  begins  the  writing  of,  83, 
85  ;  framework  and  tone,  84 ; 
MSS.  of,  85  ;  printed  by  Caxton, 
85,  182  ;  comparison  with  The 
Faerie  Queene,  145  ;  and  the  Tale 
of  Gamely n,  164 

S7S 


INDEX 


Carew,  Thomas,  222 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  contributes  to  the 
London  Magazine,  457 ;  life  and 
works,  512-22;  reviews  and  maga- 
zine work,  513;  his  "terrible  earnest- 
ness," 515;  on  his  own  life,  517,  518, 
519;  a  hterary  lion,  521;  his  Re- 
miniscences, death,  522  ;  compared 
with  Ruskin,  523  ;  on  Tennyson, 
536,  537  ;  and  Browning's  Sordello, 
546  ;    and  philistinism,  561 

Catriona,  by  Stevenson,  570 

Castaway,  The,  by  Cowper,  383 

Castle  Dangerous,  455 

Castle  of  Indolence,  The,  318 

Cato,  Addison's  tragedy,  281  ;  Pope 
writes  prologue  to,  284 

Cavalier  Tunes,  by  Browning,  548  ; 
quoted,  549 

Caxton,  William,  prints  the  Canter- 
bury  Tales,  85  ;  his  printing, 
102 

Cecil,  William,  lyord  Burleigh,  120, 
121,  123,  197,  198 

Cecilia,  by  Fanny  Burney,  370  ;  its 
influence  on  Jane  Austen,  442 

Cenci,  The,  by  Shelley,  425 

Chancellor,  Richard,  181 

Chapman,  George,  collaborates  with 
Jonson  and  Marston,  206;  Keats' 
sonnet  on  his  Homer,  432 

Charity,  by  Cowper,  378 

Charlemagne,  Romance  of,  49 

Charles  II,  and  Dryden,  249 

Charterhouse,  and  Thackeray,  471, 
472,  476 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  319 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  49,  75-86  ;  com- 
pared with  earUer  authors  and 
writings,  75  ;  French  influence  on, 
75,  81  ;  Italian  influence  on,  81, 
82  ;  in  Italy,  81  ;  Petrarch,  81  ; 
marriage,  82  ;  money  troubles,  83  ; 
his  wife's  death,  83  ;  begins  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  83  ;  official  ap- 
pointments and  pension,  83  ;  por- 
trait of  himself,  84 ;  Caxton's 
edition  of,  85,  102  ;  his  son,  85  ; 
estimation  of,  86  ;  comparison  with 
Spenser,  145  ;  Tale  of  Gamelyn 
wrongly  attributed  to,  164 ; 
modernized  versions  by  Dryden, 
254  ;    and  Nature,  316 

576 


Chaucer,  John,  76,  77 
Chelsea,  Sir  Thomas  More  and,  106 
Chester  cycle  of  miracle-plays,  51 
Chesterfield,    lyord,    and    Johnson's 

Dictionary,  335,  337 
Childe  Harold,  415,  419,  420,  433,  453 
Child's  coffee-house,  267 
Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  A,  567 
Christ's     Hospital,     Coleridge     and 

I^amb  at,  399,  458 
Christabel,   by   Coleridge,   406,    409 ; 

Scott  influenced  by,  451 
Christian  Hero,  The,  270 
Christian  interpolations  in  Beowulf, 

22  ;   in  the  Exeter  Book,  34 
Christian  Year,  The,  557 
Christianity  introduced  into  North- 

umbria,  26 
Chronica  Majora,  The,  53-60 
Chronicle,    the   English,    see  English 

Chronicle 
Chronicle  plays,  Shakespeare's,  162 
Chronicles  of  the  twelfth  and  early 

thirteenth  centuries,  54 
Church,  the,  in  the  late  Middle  Ages, 

88  ;   George  Herbert  and  the,  217  ; 

and  Milton,  236  ;   Bunyan  and  the, 

259 
Church,  plays  performed  in,  50 
Church,  Dean,  on  Bacon's  Advance- 
ment of  Learning,  201 
Church  Porch,  The,  218 
Citizen  of  the  World,  The,  348 
Clarence,    Duchess    of,    Chaucer    a 

member  of  her  household,  79,  80 
Clarissa  Harlowe,  332 
Clarke,  Charles  Cowden,  and  Keats, 

430,  431 
Classical   drama,    and   Ben   Jonson, 

206,  207 
Cleanness,  63,  65  ;  its  author,  67 
Cleobury  Mortimer,  68 
Clerk    of    Oxenforde,    the,    in    The 

Canterbury  Tales,  79,  82 
Clothes,  the  Philosophy  of  (Carlyle's 

Sartor  Resartus),  516-22 
Cloud,  The,  by  Shelley,  426 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  558 
"  Club,  The."  339,  349.  353,  354 
"  Cockney  School,  The,"  430,  433,  437 
Coleridge,   Samuel  Taylor,   life    and 

works,  397-411  ;   early  years,  398- 

400  ;  friendship  with  Wordsworth, 


INDEX 


402,  404  ;  enlists,  meets  Southey, 
the  •'  Pantisocrasy,"  402  ;  effect 
of  French  Revolution  on,  402,  403  ; 
marriage,  literary  work,  403 ; 
settles  at  Nether  Stowey,  descrip- 
tion of  by  Dorothy  Wordsworth, 
404  ;  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  404-10  ; 
at  Gottingen,  409  ;  death,  410 ; 
attacked  by  Byron,  414 ;  and 
Lamb,  458,  461,  467 

Colet,   John,    100,    loi  ;    founds  St. 
Paul's  School,  107,  109 

Colin  Clout's  Come  Home  Again,  147 

Colin  Clout's  Mournful  Ditty  for  the 
Death  of  Astrophel,  143,  174 

Collar,  The,  220 

Collins,  William,  a  follower  of  Thom- 
son, 318  ;    poems  of,  319 

Colombe's  Birthday,  549 

Columba,  27 

Columbus  and  the  Renaissance,  99, 
i8i 

Comedy  of  Errors,  The,  156,  162 

Coming  of  Arthur,  The,  by  Tennyson, 
542 

Common,    Dol,    in    The    Alchemist, 
208-10 

Common  Prayer,  Book  of,  187 

Complaint  of  Deor,  The,  35 

Compleat     Angler,     The,     quotation 
from,  220 

Comte    de    Gabalis,    Le,    Pope's    in- 
debtedness to,  285 

Comus,  by  Milton,  237,  255 

Condell,  Henry,  169,  171 

Conduct  of  the  Allies,  The,  305 

Congreve,  William,  231 

Conscious      Lovers,      The,      Steele's 
comedy,  282 

Constable,  Henry,  174 

Constantinople,  capture  of,  and  the 
Renaissance,  100 

Contarine,  Rev.  Thomas,  and  Gold- 
smith, 343.  344 

Content,  by  Robert  Greene,  179 

Conversation,  by  Cowper,  378 

Copernicus,  and  the  Renaissance,  99 

Comhill,  gangland  lives  in,  72,  82 

Cornhill  Magazine.  Thackeray  editor 

of.  477 
Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo,  Notes  of  a 

Journey  from,  473 
Corsair,  The,  415,  416,  433 


Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  The,  388 

Cotton,  Sir  Robert  Bruce,  24 

Cottonian  MSS.,  the,  24,  64 

Count  Robert  of  Paris,  455 

Courts  of  love  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  81 

Coventry  cycle  of  miracle-plays,  51 

Coverdale,  Miles,  117 

Coverley,  Sir  Roger  de,  275,  277,  278, 
316  ;  compared  with  Goldsmith's 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  350 

Cowan's  Bridge,  the  Brontes  at 
school  at,  491 

Cowley,  Abraham,  an  effect  of  Puri- 
tanism upon,  196,  222 

Cowper,  William,  a  follower  of 
Thomson,  318 ;  The  Task,  319 ; 
life  and  works,  372-83  ;  mental 
disorder,  372,  377,  383  ;  at  Hunt- 
ingdon, 372-75  ;  and  the  Unwins, 
374  ;  and  John  Newton,  376-78  ;  at 
Olney,  376-82  ;  tame  hares,  378  ; 
takes  up  poetry,  improved  health, 
378  ;  and  Lady  Austen,  379  ;  John 
Gilpin.  379  ;  leads  revolt  against 
school  of  Pope,  381  ;  removes  to 
Weston,  382 ;  death,  383 ;  and 
Natxire,  398 

Craigenputtock,  512-21 

Cranmer,  George,  188 

Cranmer,  Thomas,  187 

Crashaw,  Richard,  and  Anglicanism, 
195,  221,  222 

Crisp,  "  Daddy,"  Fanny  Burney's 
friend,  363,  365.  367,  369 

Crist,  by  Cynewulf,  36 

Cromwell,  poem  by  Matthew  Arnold 
on,  558 

Crossing  the  Bar,  543 

Cruising  Voyage  Round  the  World,  A , 
by  Capt.  Rogers,  293 

Culture  and  Anarchy,  560-63 

Cup,  The,  by  Tennyson,  543 

Cuthbert,  his  account  of  Bede's  last 
days,  43 

Cymbeline,  169 

Cynewulf,  34,  35-37 
Cynthia's  Revels,  206 

Daniel  Deronda,  510,  511 
Danish  invasion  of  Britain,  16,  47 
Dapper,  in  The  Alchemist,  208 
Dark  Ladie,  The,  by  Coleridge,  406 

577 


INDEX 


David  Copperfield,  479,  480-88 

Davys,  John,  181 

Day  Dream,  The,  by  Tennyson,  535 

De  Augmentis,  Bacon's,  204 

Dean  Prior,  Herrick  at,  224 ;  his 
departure  from,  229  ;  and  return 
to,  230 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire, 
1'he,  359-61 

Defoe,  Daniel,  293-99  ;  early  years, 
294,  295  ;  pilloried,  295  ;  Swift 
and,  296 ;  Robinson  Crusoe,  297-99 ; 
Serious  Reflections,  298-99  ;  death, 
299  ;  in  Harley's  pay,  304 

Dekker,  Thomas,  and  Ben  Jonson, 
206 

Deor.  The  Complaint  of,  35 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  contributes  to 
The  London  Magazine,  457 

Deserted  Village,  The,  353 

Devereux,  Penelope,  see  Rich,  Pene- 
lope 

Devil  Tavern,  the,  212 

Deyverdun,  Gibbon  living  with,  359 

Dickens,  Charles,  471  ;  popularity, 
473  ;  life  and  works,  479-89 ; 
novels,  479  ;  theatrical  work,  479  ; 
early  life,  481-82 ;  his  reading,  481  ; 
at  the  blacking  warehouse,  483  ; 
hardships,  484  ;  first  published 
writing,  486  ;  in  love,  487  ;  charac- 
ters drawn  from  humble  Ufe,  488  ; 
readings  in  America,  489  ;  death, 
489  ;   on  George  Bliot,  509 

Dictes  and  Sayings  of  the  Philosophers, 
The,  102 

Dictionary  of  the  English  Language, 
Dr.  Johnson's,  334-37 ;  payment 
^or,  335  ;  some  definitions,  335, 
336  ;    the  preface,  335-36 

Dido  of  Carthage,  138 

Dingley,  Rebecca,  300,  303,  306,  307, 
308 

Diodati,  Charles,  letter  from  Milton 
to,  238 

Discourse  of  a  Discoverie,  by  Gilbert, 
182,  186 

Discovery,  the  Age  of,  180-86 

Distaff,  Jenny,  272 

Divers  Voyages,  by  Hakluyt,  184 

Divine  Weeks,  The,  influence  on 
Milton,  235 

Dr.  Faustus,  133-38,  187 


578 


Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  567 
Dodsley,  Robert,  and  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary,    334  ;       dechnes     Fanny 
Burney's  Evelina,  367 
Domhey  and  Son,  475,  479 
Dora,  by  Tennyson,  535 
Drake,  Sir  Francis,  181,  185 
Drama,  the  early  beginnings  of,  50  ; 
rise  of  the  Elizabethan,   135  ;    of 
the  Restoration,  231 
Dramatic  Romances    and   Lyrics,   by 

Browning,  549 
Dramatis  Persona,  by  Browning,  555 
Dramatists,  Elizabethan,  their  man- 
ner of  Ufe,  134-35,  160 
Drapier's  Letters,  312 
Drayton,  Michael,  visits  Shakespeare 
at  Stratford,    169 ;    and    Tottell's 
Miscellany,  174,  176 
Dream  Children,  i)y  I^amb,  460 
Dream  of  Fair  Women,  The,  534 
Drugger,    Abel,    in    The    Alchemist, 

209-10 
Dryden,  John,  247-54  ;    early  work, 
247 ;     Absalom    and    Acliitophel, 
248-54  ;   relations  with  Charles  II, 
249  ;   The  Medal,  252  ;  the  Uterary 
dictator,  253  ;   later  poems,  death, 
254  ;    and  the  Augustan  Age,  265  ; 
Dr.    Johnson    on,    341  ;     reaction 
against  school  of,  414 
Du  Bartas,  his  Divine  Weeks^  235 
Dunciad,  The,  253,  286 
Dunstable,  early  plays  at,  51 
Dunstan,  16 
Dyer,  Sir  Edward,  129,  174 

East  India  House,  the,  Charles  Lamb 

at,  460,  464  ;   retirement  from,  465 
Eastward  Hoe  !  206 
Ecclesiastical  History,  Bede's,  39-44  ; 

quoted,  27,  53 
Ecclesiastical  Polity,  The  Laws  of,  187- 

93  ;   its  effect  on  Anghcanism,  195 
Edinburgh,  Burns  at,  390-91 
Edinburgh  Review,   The,   and  Keats' 

Endymion,  438  ;    and  Lamb's  fohn 

Woodvil,  464  ;  on  Ruskin's  Modern 

Painters,  529 
Edinburgh       University,       Carlyle's 

account  of  life  at,  518 
Edmund,  in  King  Lear,  169 
Edward  II,  by  Marlowe,  138 


INDEX 


Edwin  Drood.  The  Mystery  of,  489 

Eikon  Basilike,  223 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard, 319 

Elinor  and  Marianne,  443 

Eliot.  George,  life  and  works,  502-1 1  ; 
slow  literary  growth,  502  ;  charac- 
teristics, 503,  510 ;  schooling, 
504  ;  her  reading,  505  ;  life  in 
Coventry,  translation  of  Strauss's 
Life  of  Christ,  travel,  506  ;  work 
on  the  Westminster  Review,  literary 
friendships,  507  ;  friendship  with 
G.  H.  Lewes,  507  ;  her  first  fiction, 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  508  ;  later 
works,  510-11  ;    death,  511 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  loi,  121,  123  ;  her 
place  in  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene, 
147  ;   pensions  Spenser,  148 

Ellwood,  Thomas,  246 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  and  Carlyle,  521 

Emma,  by  Jane  Austen,  447 

Endymion,  by  Keats,  433-38 ;  story 
of,  435  ;  Keats'  Preface  to,  436  ; 
hostile  reviews,  437 

England's  Helicon,  172-79 

Enghsh  and  Norman,  conflict  be- 
tween the  languages,  49 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  reviewers, 
414 

English  Chronicle,  The,  45-48,  53,  54 

English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  477 

Englishman,  The,  281  ;  and  Alexan- 
der Selkirk,  293 

Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of 
Polite    Learning    in    Europe,   347, 

348 
Epistles,  Pope's,  292 
Epithalamium,  Spenser's,  152 
Erasmus,  and  Sir  Thomas  More,  105, 

107  ;   influence  on  Tindale,  114 
Esmond,  477 

Essai  sur  I' Etude  de  la  LittSrature,  357 
Essay,  rise  of  the  modern,  395 
Essay  on  Man,  289-92  ;   some  quota- 
tions from,  291 
Essay  upon  Criticism,  283 
Essays,  Bacon's,  199,  204 
Essays  of  Elia.  457-61  ;    464 
Essex,  Earl  of,  121,  128,  129,  147 
Etherege,  Sir  George,  278 
Eudosia,  by  Ruskin,  524 


Euganean  Hills,  Lines  written  among 

the,  422,  424 
Euphues,   119-26;    publication,   and 
account    of,    122  ;     characteristics 
of,    123  ;    its  reception,   123  ;    in- 
fluence   of,     124-25;    and    Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  164 
Euphues  and  his  England,  123 
Euphues  and  his  Ephcehus,  122 
Evans,  Sir  Hugh,  in  the  Merry  Wives, 

156 
Evans,  Mary  Ann,  see  Eliot,  George 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,  by  Keats,  438 
Eve  of  St.  John,  The.  by  Scott,  450 
Evelina,  by  Fanny  Burney,  366-70  ; 
early  draft,  364;  attempts  to  find 
a  publisher,  367  ;    completion  and 
pubhcation,  368 
Every   Man   in   His   Humour,   205  ; 

quoted,  207 
Every  Man  out  of  His  Humour,  121, 

124,  206 
Excursion,  The,  by  Wordsworth,  410, 

433 
Exeter  Book,  the,  33-38  ;  Christian 

poems  in,  35 
Expostulation,  by  Cowper,  378 

Pack,  in  The  Alchemist,  208-10 
Faerie  Queene,  The,  143-53  '»    its  be- 
ginning, 144  ;  its  scheme,  146,  149  ; 
Books   I-III   finished  in   Ireland, 
147  ;     and  published  in  England, 
149  ;   the  story  of  Book  I,  149-52  - 
Books   III- VI   written,    152  ;     its 
dedication,     197 ;      influence     on 
Milton,  235  ;    compared  with  Pil- 
grim's   Progress,    261,    264 ;     in- 
debtedness of  Keats  to,  432 
Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  The,  455 
Falcon,  The,  by  Tennyson,  543 
Fall  of  Robespierre,  The,  403 
Farringford, Tennyson's  life  at,  538-39 
Fashions  in  Mourning,  by  Steele,  278 
Fastidious  Brisk,  in  Every  Man  Out 

of  His  Humour,  121,  124 
Faust  legend,  the,  see  Dr.  Faustus 
Felix  Holt,  511 
Fermor,  Arabella,  and  The  Rape  of 

the  Lock,  284 
Ferrar,  Nicholas,  221 
Field,  Richard,  159 
Fielding,   Henry,    328-32  ;    parodies 

579 


INDEX 


Pamela  in  Joseph  Andrews,  329-32  ; 
Tom  Jones,  Amelia,  332  ;  death, 
332  ;   woman  imitators,  364 

First  Folio,  the,  171  ;  Jonson's  lines 
in,  211 

First  Impressions,  Jane  Austen's 
early  work,  441,  442 

Fitzgerald,  Edward,  friendship  with 
Thackeray,  472  ;  and  Tennyson, 
535.  536.  537 

Flight  of  the  Duchess,  The,  549 

Flutter,  Sir  Fophng,  278 

Fool,  the,  in  Elizabethan  drama,  137, 
169 

Forster,  John,  480,  486 

Fortunes  of  Nigel,  The,  484 

Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  264 

Fraser's  Magazine,  Thackeray  writes 
for,  473  ;  and  Carlyle's  Sartor 
Resartus,  521 

Frederick  the  Great,  by  Carlyle,  522 

Freeman,  E.  A.,  on  Gibbon,  360 

Freeport,  Sir  Andrew,  275 

French  influence  on  Chaucer,  75,  81, 
84 

French  Revolution,  its  effect  on 
EngUsh  literature,  395  ;  on  Words- 
worth, 400  ;  Carlyle's  book  on  the, 
521 

Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,  140-42 

Friendship,  Addison's  essay  on,  279 

Frobisher,  Martin,  181,  182,  185 

Froude,  J.  A.,  on  the  Authorized 
Version  of  the  Bible,  118;  on 
Hakluyt's  Voyages,  184  ;  and  the 
Tractarian  Movement,  557 

Fuller,  Thomas,  on  Hooker,  189  ;  on 
Shakespeare  and  Jonson,  212 

Gamelyn,  The  Tale  of,  164 
Garden,  The,  by  Cowper,  381 
Gardener's  Daughter,  The,  by  Tenny- 
son, 535 
Gareth  and  Lynette,  by  Tennyson,  542 
Garrick,    David,   travels  to   London 
with  Johnson,  333  ;    produces  his 
Irene,  338  ;   and  "  The  Club,"  339  ; 
and  the  Bumeys,  366 
Gaskell,  Mrs.,  on  the  Brontes,  493 
Gawayne,  Sir,  and  the  Green  Knight, 

63-65  ;   its  author,  66-67  '»   79 
Gay,  John,  309 
Genesis,  Caedmon's  paraphrase,  29,  31 

580 


Geraint  and  Enid,  by  Tennyson,  541 

Giaour,  The,  415 

Gibbon,  Edward,  and  "  The  Club," 
339,  354.  355  ;  life  and  works, 
354-61  ;  compared  with  Dr.  John- 
son, 355  ;  his  Autobiography,  quo- 
tations from,  355,  356,  357 ;  at 
Oxford,  and  Lausanne,  356  ;  Essai 
sur  I'Etude  de  la  LittSrature,  357  ; 
in  Rome,  357  ;  l^he  Decline  and 
Fall,  357-61  ;  friendship  with 
Deyverdun,  359-60 ;  accuracy  of 
his  work,  360  ;  settles  in  England, 
361  ;   death,  361 

Gilbert,  Sir  Humphrey,  181,  182,  185 

Giles,  Peter,  110 

Gleemen,  Anglo-Saxon,  34 

Globe  Theatre,  the,  167 

Gloucester,  Duke  of,  and  Chaucer,  83 

Godwin,  Mary,  418 

Golden  Legend,  The,  102 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  his  characters  and 
Fielding's,  329  ;  and  "  The  Club," 
339 :  life  and  works,  343-53  '> 
early  years,  343  ;  University  hfe, 
344  ;  leaves  Ireland,  travel,  settles 
in  London,  345  ;  his  struggles  for 
a  livelihood,  346-48  ;  established 
as  a  writer,  348  ;  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field, The,  349-53  ;  later  work, 
death,  353 

Gollancz,  Israel,  quoted  on  Pearl,  63 

Goneril,  in  King  Lear,  169 

Good  Natured  Man,  The,  353 

Gordon,  Margaret,  and  Carlyle,  518 

Gosse,  Edmund,  on  Herrick's  Hes- 
perides,  223 

Grace  Abounding,  259 

Gray,  Thomas,  influenced  by  Thom- 
son, 318  ;    poems  of,  319 

Great  Expectations,  488 

Great   Hoggarty  Diamond,   The,  471, 

473 
Great  Instauration,  The,  198 
Greatest  Birth  of  Time,  The,  198 
Grecian  coffee-house,  the,  267,  271 
Greek    literature,    and    the    Renais- 
sance, 91,  99,  100,  104 
Greene,  Robert,  influenced  by  Lyly, 
124,  134,  139-42  ;    his  Groatsworth 
of  Wit,   139  ;    dissolute  life,    139  ; 
his  plays,  139  ;    death  and  charac- 
ter, 142  ;   jealousy  of  Shakespeare, 


INDEX 


i6i,    206 ;     his   possible   share   in 

Henry    VI,   162  ;    his  lyrics,   173  ; 

and  Tottell's  Miscellany,  174  ;    his 

Content,  179 
Greville,  Fulke,  129 
Grey     de     Wilton,     ]>)rd,      Spenser 

secretary  to,  143 
Griselda,  Chaucer's  story  of,  81 
Groatsworth  of  Wit,  ^,  139  ;  its  attack 

on  Shakespeare  quoted,  i6i 
Grocyn,  William,  100,  107 
Grub  Street,  321 
Guardian,    The,    281  ;     Pope    writes 

for,  284 
Guinevere,  by  Tennyson,  541 
Gulliver's     Travels,     309-12  ;      314  ; 

probable  indebtedness  to  Robinson 

Crusoe,  310 
Gutenburg,  John,  102 
Guy  Mannering,  454 

Haki,uyt,  Richard,  180-86 

Hall,  Dr.  John,  169 

Hall,  Susannah.  169 

Hallam,  Arthur,  534 

Hamlet,  168 

Harold,  by  Tennyson,  543 

Harrington,  James,  influenced  by  Sir 

Thomas  More,  153 
Harvey,  Gabriel,  on  John  Lyly,  120  ; 
on  Robert  Greene,  124;  The  Faerie 
Queene  submitted  to,  144 
Hathaway,  Ann,  157,  158 
Hawkins,  Sir  John,  181,  182 
Hawkins,  Sir  Richard,  182,  185 
Haworth,  the  Brontes  at,  490,  493 
Hazlitt,  William,  on  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  286  ;    and  I^eigh  Hunt,  430  ; 
contributes  to  the  London  Maga- 
zine, 457  ;    and  I^amb,  465 
Heart  of  Midlothian,  The,  454 
H^ger,  Mons.,  494,  495 
Heminge,  John,  169,  171 
Henry    III,    and    the    Chronicle    of 

Matthew  Paris.  55 
Henry  IV,  Shakespeare's,  162 
Henry  V,  Shakespeare's,  162 
Henry  VI,  Shakespeare's  furbishing 

up  of,  161-62 
Henry  VII,  History  of,  199.  204 
Henry  VIII.  and  Sir  Thomas  More, 

106.  108 
Herbert,    George,   and  Anglicanism, 


195  ;     life    and    works,    215-21  ; 

compared  with  Herrick,  227 
Hereford,  Nicholas,  90 
Heroines,  Shakespeare's,  166,  170 
Herrick,    Robert,    and   Anglicanism, 

195  ;    on  The  Alchemist,  211  ;    and 

Ben  Jonson,  212,  223,  229  ;   during 

the  Civil  War,  214  ;  life  and  works. 

222-30  ;    compared  with  Herbert, 

227 
Hesketh,  I^ady,  and  Cowper,  382 
Hesperides,  The,  223-30 
Highland  Mary,  389,  393 
Hild,  Abbess,  26 
Hind  and  the  Panther,  The,  254 
Hints  from  Horace,  by  Byron,  415 
History    of    German    Literature,    by 

Carlyle,  516 
History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  The, 

332 
Hobbinol's  Ditty,  174 
Holinshed's  Chronicle,  Shakespeare's 

indebtedness  to,  160 
Holofernes,  124.  156 
Holy  City,  The,  by  Bunyan,  259.  263 
Holy  Fair,  The,  by  Burns.  388 
Holy  Grail,  The,  by  Tennyson,  542 
Holy  Willie's  Prayer,  388 
Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad,  549 
Homer,    Pope's  translation  of,   286, 

306  ;    Cowper's  translation  of,  383 
Honeycomb,  Will,  275 
Hooker,  Richard,  187-93 
Hope,  by  Cowper,  378 
Horner,  Gilpin,  450,  451 
Horton,  Milton  at,  237 
Hours  of  Idleness,  414 
House  of  Fame,  Chaucer's,  83 
Household  Words,  480 
Houyhnhnms,  A  Voyage  to  the,  313 
How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix,  549 
Hughes,  John,  278,  279 
Hughes,  Thomas,  557 
Hume,  David,  and  Gibbon,  358 
"  Humour,"  its  Elizabethan  sense,  207 
Hunt,  I^eigh,  and  Shelley,  428  ;    the 
"  Cockney  School,"  430,  437  ;   and 
Keats,  431,  432,  433  ;    and  Lamb, 

465 
Huxley,  Thomas,  on  the  Bible,  loi 
Hyperion,  by  Keats,  438 
Hythloday,  Ralph,  no 

581 


INDEX 


Idiot  Boy,  The,  by  Wordsworth,  407 
Idylls  of  the  King,  The,  535,  540 
Iliad,  The,  Pope's  translation  of,  286 
Illustrations,    account    of    those    by 

Matthew  Paris,  59 
//  Penseroso,  214,  237 
Imogen,  in  Cymbeline,  170 
In    Memoriam,    by    Tennyson,    534, 

538  ;   reference  to,  558 
Instauratio    Magna,    see    Great    In- 

stauration 
Ireland,  Spenser's  life  in,  143 
Irene,  Johnson's  tragedy,  333,  338 
Irish     Church,     the,     influence     on 

English  literature,  40 
Isabella,  by  Keats,  438 
Italian  influence,  on  Chaucer,  81,  82, 

84  ;   on  EngUsh  poetry  at  the  time 

of  the  Renaissance,  100,  loi,  129 
Italy,  and  the  Renaissance,  100 
Ivanhoe,  454 

James  I,  his  scholarly  reputation, 
200,  202  ;    and  Jonson,  206 

Jane  Eyre,  491,  498-500 

Janet's  Repentance,  510 

J  arrow,  monastery  at,  40 

Jeffrey,  Ivord,  and  Carlyle,  515,  516, 
520 

Jesus  Christ,  typified  in  Piers  Plow- 
man, 73 

Jew  of  Malta,  The,  138 

Jewel,  Bishop,  188 

John  Anderson  my  Jo,  John,  393 

John  of  Gaunt,  and  Chaucer,  83  ; 
and  Wiclif,  89 

John  Gilpin,  329 

John  Inglesant,  221 

John  Woodvil,  464 

Johnson,  Esther  {"  Stella "),  and 
Swift,  301  ;  description  of,  302  ; 
at  lyaracor,  303  ;  letters  from  Swift 
to,  304,  305,  306-8  ;  in  Dublin, 
308  ;  meets  "Vanessa,"  309  ;  last 
days  of,  313  ;   death  of,  314 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  on  King  Lear, 
168 ;  on  Pope,  290,  291  ;  and 
Thomson,  316 ;  on  Richardson's 
Pamela,  326  ;  life  and  works  333- 
42  ;  early  days  in  London,  334  ; 
the  Dictionary,  334-37 ;  letter  to 
Lord  Chesterfield,  337  ;  his  wife, 
338 ;     fame   achieved,    338 ;     per- 

582 


sonal  description  of,  338-39  ;  Ras- 
selas,  339  ;  pensioned,  339  ;  Lives 
of  the  Poets,  340-41 ;  critical  canons, 

340-41  ;  friendship  with  Goldsmith,  I 

349,  353  ;  and  Gibbon,  354-55  ;  on  i 

Fanny  Burney's  Evelina,  369  | 

Jonathan's  coffee-house,  268 

Jonson,  Ben,  satirizes  Lyly,  121,  124  ;  : 

visits    Shakespeare    at    Stratford,  ; 
169 ;     effect    of    Renaissance    on, 

195  ;     plays     and     life,     205-13  ;  i 

compared  with  Shakespeare,  205,  \ 

212  ;    duel  with  Gabriel  Spencer,  I 

205  ;   relations  with  James  I,  206  ;  ; 

characteristics  of  his  work,   207  ;  ; 

friendship  with  Shakespeare,  211  ;  \ 

and  Herrick,   212,   223,   229 ;    his  i 

"  sons,"  212  ;    death,  213  I 

Joseph  Andrews,  328-32  ;    compared  j 

with  Goldsmith's  Vicar,  350  \ 

Juliana,  37  ' 

Julius  CcBsar,  167  j 

Junian  MS.,  the,  30 

Jusserand,  Professor,  on  Piers  Plow- 
man, 68  n  ' 

I 

Kastrii,,  in  The  Alchemist,  210 

Keats,  John,  and  Shelley's  Adonais,     \ 
427;   life  and  works,  431-39;  early     , 
years,    431  ;     and    Shelley,    432  ; 
gives  up  medicine  for  poetry,  first     ' 
volume  of  poems  published,  432  ;     ; 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  433  ;    Endy-     i 
mion,  433-38  ;  at  Hampstead,  434 ; 
Shelley's  invitation  declined,  435  ; 
tour  in  Scotland,   437 ;     and  the     ! 
reviewers,     438  ;      failing    health,    ': 
438  ;    death  at  Rome,  439  ;    con-     i 
tributes  to  the  London  Magazine,     : 
457  ;     Browning's  admiration  for,      < 
545.  546  i 

Keble,  John,  557 

Kenilworth,  the  revels  at,  128,  159 

Kenilworth,  by  Scott,  454 

Kent,  Duke  of,  in  King  Lear,  169  * 

Kenyon,  John,    and  the  Brownings,      j 
550.  551.  554  : 

Kidnapped,    by    R.    L.    Stevenson,      ! 
567-68 

Kilcolman,  Spenser's  Irish  home,  143, 
152  ;    destroyed  by  rebels,  153  \ 

Kilmarnock  edition  of  Burns'  poems, 
390  ; 


INDEX 


King  John,  Shakespeare's,  162,  163 

King  Lear,  168-69 

King    Victor   and   King   Charles,    by 

Browning,  548 
Kingsley,  Charles,  on  Euphues,  119  ; 

on  the  Ehzabethan  seamen,   184; 

and  the  Working  Men's  Institute, 

530 
Knight e's  Tale,  Chaucer's,  81 
Kyd,  Thomas,  134 

L' Allegro,  214,  237 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,  551 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  The,  453 

"  I^ake  Poets,  The,"  411,  433 

Lamb,  Charles,  on  Sir  Wm.  Temple's 
style,  302  ;  at  Christ's  Hospital, 
399.  458  ;  on  Coleridge,  399,  458, 
467  ;  visits  Coleridge  at  Nether 
Stowey,  404  :  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
430  ;  life  and  works,  457-67  ;  early 
years,  457-59  ;  office  life,  460 ; 
intervals  of  madness,  461  ;  his 
reading,  463  ;  writes  jokes,  463  ; 
poems  and  stories,  464  ;  literary 
friendships,  465  ;  easier  circum- 
stances, removal  to  IsUngton,  465  ; 
death,  467 

Lamb,  Mary,  404,  460-63,  465-67 

Lamia,  by  Keats,  438 

Lanfranc,  Archbishop,  58 

Langland,  WiUiam,  68,  74,  76  ;  work 
compared  with  Chaucer's,  75  ;  and 
Chaucer,  80  ;  compared  with  Sir 
Thomas  More,  104 

Laputa,  A  Voyage  to.  313 

Lara,  by  Byron,  415,  416 

Last  Tournament,  The,  by  Tennyson, 
542 

Latimer,  Hugh,  compared  with  Mat- 
thew Paris,  56 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  The,  450,  452 

Lee,  Sir  Sidney,  on  Shakespeare,  163, 
211 

Legend  of  Montrose,  The,  454 

Leicester,  Earl  of,  121  ;  Sidney's 
uncle,  127 

Leofric,  Bishop,  and  the  Exeter  Book, 

33 
Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne,  by  Shelley, 

431 
Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver  Crom- 
well, by  Carlyle,  522 


Lewes,    George  Henry,    and   George 

EUot,  507 
Liberal,  The,  a  projected  newspaper 

by  Byron  and  Leigh  Hunt,  428 
Life  and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman,  The, 

263 
Life  of  Napoleon,  by  Scott,  455 
Life  of  Schiller,  by  Carlyle,  512 
Lilliput,  A  Voyage  to,  311 
Lilley  (or  Lyly),  William,  107, 191,  155 
Linacre,  Thomas,  100,  107 
Lintot's  Miscellany,  285 
Lissoy,  the  home  of  Goldsmith,  343, 

347 
Litany,  by  Herrick,  228 
Little  Dorrit,  487 
Lives  of  the  Poets,  The,  by  Johnson, 

340-41 
Lockhart,    John    Gibson,    and    the 

critique   on   Endymion,    437  ;     on 

Scott,  449,  452 
Locksley  Hall,  by  Tennyson,  537 
Lodge,     Thomas,     indebtedness     of 

Shakespeare  to,    164  ;    his  lyrics, 

173  ;    and  Tottell's  Miscellany,  174, 

177 
Lollards,  the,  89,  92,  114 
London,    its   life   in   Chaucer's   day, 

77-78 
London,  poem  by  Johnson,  334 
London  Gazette,  The,  Steele  becomes 

editor,  270 
London  Magazine,  The,  457 
Long  Will,  80 
Lord  of  Burleigh,  The,  by  Tennyson, 

535 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  The,  454 
Loss    of  the  Royal  George,   The,   by 

Cowper,  383 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  and  Euphuism, 

124,  164  ;   Latin  sentences  in,  156  ; 

period  of  its  writing,    162  ;    song 

from  in  Tottell's  Miscellany,  174 
Lovel  the  Widower,  477 
Lovelace,  Richard,  195.  214,  222 
Love  wit,  in  The  Alchemist,  208-10 
Lucrece,  163 

Lucy,  by  Wordsworth,  409 
Lucy  Gray,  by  Wordsworth,  409 
Lucy.  Sir  Thomas,  158,  159 
Luria,  by  Browning,  549 
Luther,  and  the  Renaissance  writers, 

loi  ;  defies  the  Pope,  112 

583 


INDEX 


Lutfin,  Le,  Pope's  indebtedness  to, 
285 

Lutterworth,  Wiclif  at,  89 

Lycidas,  by  Milton,  237  ;  Dr.  John- 
son's criticism  of,  340  ;  referred  to, 
558 

Lydgate,  John,  Caxton's  edition  of, 
102 

Lyly,  John,  119-26;  character  of, 
120 ;  satirized  by  Ben  Jonson, 
121,  124;  his  influence,  124-25; 
turns  to  the  drama,  125  ;  his 
petition  to  Queen  EUzabeth,  126  ; 
death,  126  ;  influence  on  Shake- 
speare, 163  ;   his  lyrics,  173 

Lyly,  William,  see  lyilley 

Lyrical  Ballads,  404-10  ;  reception 
of  by  the  public,  408,  410  ;  the 
theory  enshrined  in  them,  408  ; 
second  edition,  410 

Lyrics  in  Elizabethan  drama,  173 

Lytton,  Lord,  influenced  by  Sir 
Thomas  More,  103 

Macaui^ay,  Lord,  on  Jane  Austen,  446 

Macbeth,  168 

MacFlecknoe,  253 

Madden,  Sir  Frederick,  63 

Madrigal,  the,  178 

Magna    Instauratio,    see    Great    In- 

stauration 
Malvern  Priory,  68,  80 
Mammon,     Sir     Epicure,     in      The 

Alchemist,  209-10 
Man  of  Mode,  The,  278 
"  Mandeville,  Sir  John,"  50  ;   93-98  ; 

the  exposure  of,  96,  97  ;    referred 

to,  181 
Manly,  Professor,  on  Piers  Plowman, 

68  « 
Mansfield  Park,  444 
Manuscripts,     method     of     writing 

mediaeval,  58 
Marlowe,  Christopher,   134,  135-42  ; 

his   Tamburlaine    the    Great,    135 ; 

Dr.  Faustus,  136-38  ;  other  plays, 

138  ;  his  bad  reputation,  138 ;  death, 

139,  162  ;  estimate  of,  142  ;  birth, 

154  ;    Shakespeare  and,   161  ;    his 

possible  share  in  Henry  VI,  162  ; 

his  Passionate  Shepherd,  176,  187 
Marmion,  453 
Marston,  John,  and  Ben  Jonson,  206 


584 


Martin  Chuzzlewit,  479 

Martineau,    Harriet,  on  Jane    Eyre, 

499 

Master  of  Ballantrae.  The,  569 

Maud,  by  Tennyson,  539 

Maurice,  Frederick  Denison,  and  the 
Working  Men's  Institute,  530 

Mazarine  Bible,  the,  102 

Measure  for  Measure,  167 

Medal,  The,  252 

Men  and  Women,  by  Browning,  553 

Menaphon,  Greene's,  124 

Mercator,  The,  trade  journal  by 
Defoe,  296 

Merchant,  the,  of  The  Canterbury 
Tales,  76 

Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  167 

Merlin  and  Vivien,  by  Tennyson,  541 

Mermaid  Tavern,  the,  167,  212,  234 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Latin  sen- 
tences in,  156  ;   allusions  to,  159 

Metrical  romances,  49 

Micawber,  Mr.,  482,  487 

Middle  Ages,  break  up  of  the,  87,  99  ; 
compared  with  the  Renaissance, 
103-4 

Middle  English  Period,  the,  49-52 

Middlemarch,  511 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  163,  164, 
187 

Milbanke,  Miss,  and  Byron,  416 

Mill  on  the  Floss,  The.  503,  510 

Milton,  John,  30  ;  his  style  founded 
on  the  Bible,  87  ;  an  effect  of 
Puritanism  upon,  196 ;  and  the 
Civil  War,  223  ;  life  and  works, 
233-46  ;  early  years,  234  ;  literary 
influences,  235  ;  goes  to  Cam- 
bridge, 235  ;  breaks  with  the 
Church,  236  ;  at  Horton,  237  ; 
Continental  tour,  237  ;  settles  in 
London,  238  ;  pamphlets,  239-40  ; 
becomes  Latin  secretary  and  en- 
gages in  controversy  with  Salma- 
sius,   240  ;    marries  Mary  Powell, 

240  ;  marries  Catherine  Woodcock, 

241  ;  effect  of  the  Restoration  on, 
241,  242  ;  Paradise  Lost.  242-46  ; 
views  on  women,  242  ;  his  third 
marriage,  245  ;  payment  for  Para- 
dise Lost,  245  ;  moves  to  Bunhill 
Row,  death,  246  ;  referred  to,  255, 
256  ;  a  comparison  with  Pope,  290 


TV 


INDEX 


Minstrels,    Anglo-Saxon,    34 ;     Nor- 
man, 61 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  448, 

449 
Miracle-plays,   50  ;    their  disappear- 
ance, 135 
Miranda,  in  The  Tempest,  170 
Missolonghi,  Bjrron's  death  at,  429 
Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story,  510 
Mr.  H.,  farce  by  Lamb,  464 
Modern  Painters,  526-31,  557 
Monasteries,  dissolution  of  the,  24 
Monastery,  life  in  an  early  English, 

41 

Monastery,  The,  454 

Monks,  as  chroniclers,  54 

Monthly  Review,  Goldsmith's  work 
on,  346 

Moor  Park,  Swift  at,  300-2 

MoraUty-plays,  51  ;  their  disappear- 
ance, 135 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  100,  loi,  103-13  ; 
a  reformer,  not  a  revolutionary, 
104  ;  his  home  hfe,  105-9  ;  Hol- 
bein's portrait  of,  108  ;  and  the 
Reformation,  112,  114  ;  death, 
112;  condemns  Tindale's  transla- 
tion of  the  New  Testament,  116 

Morte  d' Arthur,  Le,  Caxton's  edition 
of,  102  :   by  Tennyson,  535 

Mossgiel,  Burns'  hfe  at,  389 

Mowcher,  Miss,  488 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  164 

Mutabilitie,  by  Spenser,  153 

Nash,  Thomas,  influenced  by  Lyly, 
124,  134  ;   on  Henry  VI,  162 

Nature,  and  the  poets,  165,  315,  318, 
381,  398,  409 

Necessity  of  Atheism,  The,  by  Shelley, 

417 
Nether  Stowey,  Coleridge  settles  at, 

404 
Newcomes,  The,  477 
Newdigate  Prize,  the,  won  by  Ruskin, 

526  ;   by  Matthew  Arnold,  558 
Newman,  Cardinal,  557 
Newton,  John,  and  Cowper,  376-78 
New   Learning,    the,    loi  ;     More    a 

disciple  of,  109 
New  Place,  Shakespeare  buys,  163  ; 

life  at,  167,  169 
Nicholas  Nicklehy,  479 


Noble  Numbers,  by  Herrick,  229 
Norman    and    Knglish,    conflict    be- 
tween the  languages,  49 
Normans,  chronicles  of  the,  53 
Northanger  Abbey,  443  ;  sold  for  ;^io, 

444  ;    pubUshed,  447 
Northumbria,  its  supremacy,  26,  39 
Novel,  rise  of   the  modern  Knglish, 
325  ;    in  the  early  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, 395  ;  in  the  Victorian  Age,  467 
Novels  by  Eminent  Hands,  473 
Novum  Organum,  Bacon's,  203 
Nutting,  by  Wordsworth,  409 

O'  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw,  389 

O  my  love's  like  a  red,  red  rose,  393 

O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,  393 

Oates,  Titus,  248,  251 

Ode  to  a  Skylark,  by  Shelley,  426 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  426 

Odes,  by  Keats,  438 

Odyssey,  The,  Pope's  translation  of,  286 

(Enone,  by  Tennyson,  534 

Oh,  to  be  in  England,  by  Browning,  549 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  The,  479 

Old  Monthly  Magazine,  The,  Dickens' 

first  writing  in,  486 
Old  Mortality,  454 

Oldys,  Wilham,  on  Shakespeare,  166 
Oliver  Twist,  429 
Olney,  Cowper  settles  at,  376 
On  Immortality,  Addison's,  278 
Ordination,  The,  by  Burns,  388 
Orm's  Ormulum,  90  ' 

Ormond,  Duke  of,  251 
Othello,  168 
Oxford,  Matthew  Arnold  on,  556,  563 

Pacoi,ET,  "  Bickerstafi's  "  famiHar, 
272 

Palace  of  Art,  The,  534 

Palamon,  in  Chaucer's  Knighte's 
Tale,  81 

Pamela,  by  Richardson,  324-28; 
parodied  by  Fielding,  329  ;  com- 
pared with  Goldsmith's  Vicar,  350 

Pantisocrasy,  the,  402 

Paracelsus,  by  Browning,  546 

Paradise  Lost,  its  debt  to  Caedmon, 
31,32;  235,  238,  242-46;  payment 
for,  245  ;  compared  with  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  261,  263,  264  ;  Addison 
on,  280 
2P  585 


INDEX 


Paradise  Regained,  246 
Paris,  Matthew,  54,  60 
Parson    Adams,    329 ;     Goldsmith's 

indebtedness  to  for  his   Vicar  of 

Wakefield,  350 
Partridge,  the  almanac-maker,  267 
Passions,  The,  by  William  Collins,  319 
Pastorals,  Pope's,  284 
Patience,  63,  65  ;   its  author,  67 
Patronage  in  literature,  321 
Pauline,  by  Browning,  546 
Pearl,    61-64  '<     its    author,    66-67  ; 

compared  with  Chaucer's  Prologue, 

75 

Peasant  Revolt,  the,  73 

Peele,  George,  influenced  by  I/yly, 
124,  134  ;  his  possible  share  in 
Henry  VI,  162  ;  his  lyrics,  173  ; 
and  Toitell's  Miscellany,  174 

Pelleas  and  Ettare,  by  Tennyson,  542 

Pembroke,  Countess  of,  see  Sidney, 
Mary 

Pembroke,  Earl  of,  120 

Pendennis,  471,  476 

Penshurst,  127,  143 

Pepys,  Samuel,  on  The  Alchemist,  211 

Perdita,  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  170 

Peterborough  Chronicle,  the,  48 

Petrarch,  Chaucer  and,  81 

Petre,  Lord,  and  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  284 

Peveril  of  the  Peak,  454 

Philip,  by  Thackeray,  477 

Philistinism,  561-63 

Phillips,  Edward,  238,  243 

Phcenix,  The,  37 

Physiologus,  in  the  Exeter  Book,  38 

Pickwick  Papers,  The,  471;  Thacke- 
ray wishes  to  illustrate,  472,  479 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The,  548-49 

Piers  Plowman,  The  Vision  of,  68-74 ; 
compared  with  Utopia,  104 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  The,  259-64 

Pinch,  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  156 

Pippa  Passes,  by  Browning,  547-48  ; 

549 

Pirate,  The,  454 

Plato,  influence  on  Sir  Thomas  More, 
103,  108 

Pliny,  Mandeville's  indebtedness  to,97 

Plowman,  Piers,  see  Piers 

Plutarch's  Lives,  Shakespeare's  in- 
debtedness to,  160 


586 


Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical,  by  Tennyson, 

534 
Poems   by   Currer,    Ellis,    and  Acton 

Bell,  495 
Poems  by  Two  Brothers  (Charles  and 

Alfred  Tennyson),  533 
"  Poet's  Corner,"  beginning  of,  85 
Poet's  Epitaph,  The,  by  Wordsworth, 

409 

Poet's  Song,  The,  by  Tennyson,  537 

Poetaster,  The,  206  \ 

"  Poor  Priests,"  Wiclif's,  89  j 

Pope,  the,  and  Wiclif,  89  j 

Pope,     Alexander,    indebtedness    to      j 

Dryden,     253  ;      his     worship     of      ' 

Dryden,    253,    283  ;     early    years,      j 

283  ;    The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  284-86 ;      | 

quarrel  with  Addison,    285,    286  ;      ; 

Homer,    The    Dunciad,    friendship      j 

with  Swift,  286  ;    at  Twickenham, 

287  ;    and  Bolingbroke,  288,  289  ;      ■ 

Essay  on  Man,  289-92  ;    accused      , 

of  atheism,  292  ;    death,  292  ;    and 

Swift,    306 ;      and    the   Scriblerus      i 

Club,  309  ;    Dr.  Johnson  on,  341  ;      \ 

revolt  against  his  school,  381,  395, 

414 
Popish  Plot,  the,  248  \ 

Poulter's  measure,  176  ' 

Powell,     Mary,     and    Milton,     240  ; 

death,  241 
Poyser,  Mrs.,  510 

Prelude,  The,  by  Wordsworth,  397,  410     , 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  442  ;    publica-     i 

tion  of,  444  ;   Charlotte  Bronte  on, 

446  I 

Primrose,  Dr.,  Scott's  reference  to,  449     i 

(see  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The)  ] 

Prince  Otto,  567 

Princess,  The,  by  Tennyson,  538  j 

Principall  Navigations,  Voiages,  &c.,     \ 

by  Hakluyt,  180,  184-6  j 

Printing,  invention  of,  loi  I 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The,  419  ; 

Professor,  The,  by  Charlotte  Bronte, 

496,  498  j 

Profitable  Meditations,  by  Bunyan,  259     j 
Progress  of  Error,  The,  by  Cowper,  378 
Progress  of  Poesy,  The,  by  Gray,  319 
Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  75, 

84  ; 

Prometheus  Unbound,  by  Shelley,  425,      ] 
426  < 


INDEX 


Promise  of  May,  The,  by  Tennyson, 

543 
Prospero,  in  The  Tempest,  170 
Prynue,  William,  on  performance  of 

Dr.  Faustus,  138 
Psalms,  The,  translation  of,  90,  91 
Puck,     in     A     Midsummer     Night's 

Dream,  170 
Pulley,  The,  219 
Punch,  Thackeray's  connexion  with, 

473.  478 

Puritanism,  and  hterature,  195,  231  ; 
and  the  theatres,  196,  247  ;  and 
Herrick,  223,  227  ;  and  Milton, 
233,  234,  236,  255  ;  in  the  reign  of 
Anne,  268 

Purvey,  John,  90,  91 

Quarterly    Review.    The,    on    Keats' 
Endymion,  437  ;  on  Jane  Eyre,  499 
Queen  Mab,  by  Shelley,  418 
Queen  Mary,  by  Tennyson,  543 
Quentin  Durward,  454 

Rai^EIGH,  Sir  Walter,  120;  Spenser's 
letter  to,  146  ;  stays  with  Spenser 
in  Ireland,  147  ;  and  the  Mermaid 
Tavern,  167  ;  reference  to,  173  ; 
and  Tottell's  Miscellany,  174,  176, 
181 

Raleigh,  Prof .  Sir  Walter,  on  ^s  You 
Like  It,  165  ;   on  Jane  Austen,  446 

Rambler,  The,  338 

Ramsay,  Allan,  his  influence  on 
Burns,  385,  386 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The,  284 

Rasselas,  339 

Reason  of  Church  Government,  The,  239 

Redgauntlet,  454 

Reformation,  the,  112.  117 

Regan,  in  King  Lear,  169 

Religio  Laid,  254 

Rehgion,  and  hterature,  22,  26-32, 
35.  36.  40-44.  49,  67,  69-74.  87-92, 
99,  100,  1 14-18,  187-93,  195,  215- 
21 ;  see  also  Puritanism 

Renaissance,  the,  and  Scholasticism, 
88  ;  period  of,  99-102  ;  Faust 
legend  and,  133,  136-37  '>  i^^ 
strength,  187  ;  decUne,  195  ;  and 
Herrick,  223 

Requiem,  Stevenson's,  571 

Restoration,    the,    and   Milton,    241, 


242  ;  and  Dryden,  247  ;  tone  of 
its  literature,  248,  255  ;  effect  on 
Bunyan,  256 

Retirement,  by  Cowper,  378 

Return  of  the  Druses,  The,  549 

Revenge,  Ballad  of  the,  543 

Review,  The,  founded  by  Defoe,  295 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  and  "  The 
Club,"  339,  349  ;  and  the  Burneys, 
366 

Rich,  Penelope,  128,  129,  175 

Richard  the  Redeles,  74 

Richard  II,  Shakespeare's,  162 

Richard  III,  Shakespeare's,  and 
Marlowe's  Edward  II,  138,  162 

Richardson,  Samuel,  322-32  ;  as  a 
letter-writer,  322,  323  ;  Pamela, 
324-28 ;  annoyed  by  parodies  of 
his  work,  328,  331  ;  and  OUver 
Goldsmith,  346  ;  woman  imitators, 
364  ;    Thackeray  on,  474 

Riddles,  The,  in  the  Exeter  Book,  37 

Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  555 

Robertson,  William,  and  Gibbon,  358 

Robinson  Crusoe,  294,  297-99  ;  Gul- 
liver's Travels  and,  310 

Rob  Roy,  454 

Rochester,  Earl  of,  255 

Roe  Head,  the  Brontes  at,  492,  493 

Rogers,  Samuel,  on  Tennyson's 
poems,  537 

Romance,  flourishing  period  of,  61  ; 
its  dechne,  79,  99 

Romances,  metrical,  49  ;  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  79 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  163 

Romola,  510,  511 

Rood,  Cynewulf 's  Vision  of  The,  36 

Roper,  WilUam,  his  Life  of  Sir 
Thomas  More,  105 

Rosahnd,  in  ^s  You  Like  It,  165-66, 
176 

Rosalynde,  Euphues  Golden  Legacy, 
164 

Rosamund  Gray,  464 

Roscommon,  Earl  of,  255 

Rose  Theatre,  the,  161 

Rosicrucian  theory,  the,  and  The 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  285 

Roundabout  Papers,  The,  477 

Rowe,  Nicholas,  on  Shakespeare,  158, 
160 

Rowley  poems,  the,  319 

587 


INDEX 


Runic  signatures,  37 

Ruskin,  John,  on  the  Bible,  87  ;  life 
and  works,  523-32  ;  compared 
with  Carlyle,  his  message,  523  ; 
early    years,    524 ;     travel,    early 


literary  work,  525  ;    championship       Seafarer,  The,  35 

of  Turner,  at  Oxford,  526  ;    meetsN -,  5easo«5,  The,  by  James  Thomson,  318 

Turner,    begins    Modern   Painters,      )Sedley,  Sir  Charles,  255 


527  ;  the  Working  Men's  Institute, 
literary  friendships,  lecturing,  530  ; 
his  teaching,  531  ;   death,  532  ;  on 
Tennyson's  Idylls,  541 
Ruth,  by  Wordsworth,  409 

Sad    Fortunes    of    the    Rev.    Amos 

Barton,  The,  508,  509 
St.  Albans,  chronicle  and  chroniclers 

of.  54 
St.  Guthlac,  The  Life  of,  37 
St.  James's  coffee-house,  271 
St.  Paul's  School,  and  Chaucer,  77  ; 
founded    by     Dean     Colet,     107; 
Milton  at,  235 
St.  Ronan's  Well,  454 
Saintsbury,    Professor,    on    Dryden, 

248 
Salt,  Samuel,  and  Charles  I^amb,  459, 

460,  463 
Samson  Agonistes,  246 
Sandys,  Edwin,  188 
Sandys,  George,  and  Anglicanism,  195 
Sartor  Resartus,   516-22  ;    its  style, 
516  ;  contents,  517-19  ;    great  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  pubUsher,  520  ; 
appears  in  Eraser's  Magazine,  521  ; 
Browning's  admiration  for,  546 
Satires,  Pope's,  292 
Saul,  by  Browning,  549 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  508-1 1 
Scholar  Gipsy,  The,  by  Arnold,  556 
Schoolmen,    and   Scholasticism,    88, 

136,  140 
Scop,  the,  34 

Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,  393 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  and  Euphuism,  125 ; 
and  Burns,  390,  391  ;  attacked  by 
Byron,  414 ;  on  Childe  Harold,  420 ; 
Hfe  and  works,  448-56  ;  a  collector 
of  ballads,  448  ;  influenced  by  Chris- 
tabel,  451  ;  definitely  adopts  litera- 
ture as  a  profession,  452 ;  his 
"  hurried  frankness,"  452 ;  settles 
at  Abbotsford,  453 ;  turns  to  novel 


writing,  453  ;  his  baronetcy,  454  ; 

financial     troubles,     455  ;     failing 

health,  455  ;  death,  456 
Scriblerus  Club,  The,  309 
Scriptorium,  the  monastic,  58 


588 


Sejanus,  206 

Selkirk,  Alexander,  293,  294,  297  ; 
Cowper's  poem  on,  383 

Sellwood,  Emily,  Lady  Tennyson,  538 

Sense  and  Sensibility,  443  ;  publica- 
tion of,  444 

Sentry,  Captain,  275 

Serious  Reflections,  by  Defoe,  298-99 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  The,  530 

Shadwell,  Thomas,  253 

Shaftesbury,  I^ord,  249,  250,  252 

Shakespeare,  Hamnet,  163 

Shakespeare,  John,  154,  155,  157  ; 
death  of,  167 

Shakespeare,  Judith,  i66,  170 

Shakespeare,  Susannah,  see  Hall, 
Susannah 

Shakespeare,  WilUam,  influence  of 
Lyly  on,  124  ;  plays  of,  154-71  ; 
birth,  154  ;  youth  and  schooUng, 
155-57  ;  marriage,  157  ;  children, 
158  ;  leaves  Stratford  for  Ivondon, 
158  ;  work  at  theatres,  159  ;  hfe 
as  a  London  actor,  160  ;  Greene's 
attack  on,  161,  206  ;  Henry  VI, 
1 61-2  ;  chronicle  plays,  162  ; 
gains  goodwill  of  Southampton, 
Venus  and  Adonis,  Lucrece,  in- 
come, death  of  son,  buys  New 
Place,  163  ;  Much  Ado,  As  You 
Like  It,  Twelfth  Night.  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  164  ;  and  Nature, 
165,  316  ;  his  girl-heroines,  166  ; 
as  Adam  in  -4  s  You  Like  It,  166  ; 
a  man  of  wealth,  death  of  his 
parents,  167 ;  under  a  cloud, 
Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  King 
Lear,  168 ;  last  years,  visitors, 
Winter's  Tale,  Cymbeline,  Tempest, 
169  ;  later  heroines,  his  f  arejwell, 
death,  and  burial,  170  ;  the  First 
FoUo,  171  ;  his  lyrics,  173  ;  and 
Tottell's  Miscellany,  174  ;  the  bust 
at  Stratford,  193  ;  and  Ben  J  onsen. 


INDEX 


205,  211,  212  ;  acts  in  Jonson's 
Every  Man  in  His  Humour,  205, 
and  Sejanus,  206 ;  godfather  to 
Jonson's  child,  212  ;  visits  to 
I^ondon,  234  ;  I^amb's  Tales  from, 
464 

Shallow,  Justice,  159 

Sharp,  Becky,  475 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing,  393 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  353 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  life  and  works, 
413-29  ;  schooldays,  413  ;  his  ad- 
vanced ideas,  417  ;  expelled  from 
Oxford,  life  in  London,  417  ;  un- 
happy marriage,  418  ;  marries 
Mary  Godwin,  418  ;  in  Switzer- 
land with  Byron,  418  ;  returns  to 
England,  419  ;  leaves  England 
finally,  421  ;  with  Byron,  422  ; 
characteristics  of  his  poetry,  422  ; 
his  lyrics,  422  ;  personal  account 
by  Trelawny,  422-24  ;  disagrees 
with  Wordsworth's  theory  of 
poetry,  426  ;  at  Pisa,  426  ;  admira- 
tion for  Byron's  poetry,  427  ; 
yachting,  427  ;  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
428,  430,  431  ;  drowned  at  sea, 
428  ;  meeting  with  Keats,  432  ; 
invitation  to  Keats'  decUned,  434  ; 
Browning's  admiration  of,  544,  546 

Shelvocke's  Voyages,  suggests  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  405 

Shepheard's  Calendar,  The,  loi,  143, 

174 
Shepherd's  Daffodil.  The,  176 
Shipman,    the,    of    The    Canterbury 

Tales,  76 
Shirley,  493,  500 
Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  The, 

295 

Shorthouse,  J.  H.,  on  Carohne  reli- 
gious poets,  214  ;  his  John  Ingle- 
sant,  221 

Shottery,  158 

Sidney,  Mary,  Countess  of  Pembroke, 
120,  128 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  120,  127-32  ;  and 
the  Queen,  128 ;  writes  Arcadia, 
128;  Astrophel,  129;  the  fame  of 
his  sonnets,  129  ;  indebtedness  to 
French  and  Latin,  129  ;  death  at 
Amheim,  132  ;  and  the  Eliza- 
bethan stage,    165  ;    reference  to. 


173;  and  Tottell's  Miscellany.  174, 
175 

Silas  Marner,  511 

Silent  Woman,  The,  206 

Silver  Tassie,  The,  by  Burns,  393 

Sir  Galahad,  by  Tennyson,  535 

Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight, 
see  Gawayne 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere, 
by  Tennyson,  537 

Sir  Nathaniel;  in  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,  124 

Sir  Thopas,  Chaucer's  Tale  of,  80 

Skeat,  Professor,  on  Piers  Plowman, 
68,  n  ;   on  Langland,  72 

Smith,  Horace,  430,  431 

Snob  Papers,  The,  473 

Sofa,  The,  by  Cowper,  380 

Song-books,  Ehzabethan,  172-79 

Sonnets,  rise  of  in  England,  127,  129 

Sonnets,  The,  of  Shakespeare,  163,  197 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  by  Mrs. 
Browning,  552 

Sordello,  by  Browning,  546 

Soul's  Tragedy,  A.,  549 

Southampton,  Earl  of,  and  Shake- 
speare, 163,  197 

Southey,  Robert,  and  Coleridge,  402  ; 
and  Wordsworth,  411  ;  and  Lamb, 
465  ;    and  Charlotte  Bronte,  494 

Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets, 
by  Lamb,  463,  464 

Spectator,  The,  274-81  ;  Pope  writes 
for,  284  ;  Goldsmith's  Bee  modelled 
on,  348 

Spencer,  Gabriel,  Jonson's  duel  with, 
205 

Spenser,  Edmund,  loi,  127,  129, 
143-53  ;  comparison  with  Chaucer, 
145  ;  his  letter  to  Raleigh,  146  ; 
returns  to  England  from  Ireland, 
and  is  pensioned  by  Queen  Ehza- 
beth,  148  ;  publishes  Books  I-III 
of  The  Faerie  Queene,  149 ;  its 
success,  152  ;  finishes  Books  III- 
VI,  152  ;  unhappy  death  in 
London,  153  ;  reference  to,  173  ; 
and  Tottell's  Miscellany.  174 

Spring,  by  James  Thomson,  318 

Stanley,  Dean,  on  Hooker,  193 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near 
Naples.  425 

Steele,  Richard,  and  The  Tatler,  269, 

589 


INDEX 


271-74  ;  early  life,  269  ;  dramatic 
work,  and  The  London  Gazette,  270  ; 
and  The  Spectator,  275,  277-81  ; 
The  Conscious  Lovers,  282  ;  death, 
282  ;  Pope  and,  283  ;  and  Alexan- 
der Selkirk,  293 

"  Stella  "  (Esther  Johnson),  Swift's 
letters  to,  306-8.  See  also  John- 
son, Ksther 

"  Stella  "  (Penelope  Rich),  Sidney's 
sonnets  to,  129-32 

Stephen,  Sir  Leslie,  on  Dr.  Johnson, 

341 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  life  and 
works,  565-71  ;  his  reading,  565  ; 
iU-health.  566,  568  ;  Kidnapped, 
567-68 ;  leaves  England,  568 ; 
settles    at    Vailima,   569 ;     death, 

571 

Stones  of  Venice,  The,  530 

Strafford,  by  Browning,  546 

Stratford-on-Avon,  154  ;  Shake- 
speare's return  to,  166  ;  last  years 
at,  169 

Streoneshalh,  26,  27 

Struldbrugs,  the,  313 

Subtle,  in  The  Alchemist,  208-10 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  195,  214,  222 

Summer,  by  James  Thomson,  318 

vSurly,  Pertinax,  in  The  Alchemist, 
209 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  100  ;  and  Tottell's 
Miscellany,  174,  175 

Swift,  Jonathan,  267;  introduce? 
Pope  to  Bolingbroke,  288  ;  con- 
tempt for  Defoe,  296 ;  life  and 
works,  300-14 ;  at  Moor  Park, 
300-2  ;  at  Laracor,  303  ;  joins  the 
Tories,  and  settles  in  London,  303  ; 
relations  with  Harley,  304  ;  dis- 
appointments, 305  ;  Letters  to 
Stella,  306  ;  Esther  Vanhomrigh, 
307  ;  appointed  Dean  of  St. 
Patrick's  Dublin,  307  ;  joins  the 
Scriblerus  Club,  309 ;  Gulliver's 
Travels,  309-12  ;  Drapier's  Letters, 
312  ;  decay  of  mental  powers,  313 ; 
declared  to  be  insane,  314  ;   death, 

314 
Swiftly  walk  over  the  Western  Wave,  427 
Swinburne,     Algernon     Charles,     on 

Colhns,  319 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  on  Euphues,  125 

590 


Tabard  Inn,  The,  80 
Table  Talk,  by  Cowper,  378  ' 

Tale   of  a   Tub,    A,    303  ;     Carlyle'S; 
indebtedness  to,  517  , 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A,  488  ! 

Tales  of  a  Grandfather,  455  < 

Tales  from  Shakespeare,  464  \ 

Talisman,  The,  454  , 

Talking  Oak,  The,  by  Tennyson,  537  i 
Tarn  0'  Shanter,  393 
Tamburlaine  the  Great,  135,  136,  1871 
Task,  The,  by  Cowper,  319,  380,  3821 
Tate,  Nahum,  253 
Tatler,  The,  267-74  ;  respective  parts 

of  Steele  and  Addison,  274 
Taylor,  Tom,  on  Thackeray,  478 
Tempest,  The,  169-70  \ 

Temple,  Sir  WilUam,  300,  302 
Temple,  The,  216-21  ] 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  quoted,  61  ;  j 
friendship   with   Thackeray,    472  ;  j 
life  and  works,  533-43  ;   childhood. 
Poems  by  Two  Brothers,  at  Cam- , 
bridge,  533  ;    and  Arthur  Hallam, 
534  ;    the  Idylls,  and  other  works, ; 
535,  540-42  ;  and  the  Carlyles,  536  ;  l 
poems   of    1842,    537;     pensioned,! 
marriage,  becomes  Poet  Laureate,  j 
538  ;     life     at    Farringford,    539  ; 
dramas,    and    later  works,    death, : 

543 
Teufelsdrockh,  516,  517,  518 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace,  life  ] 
and  works,  471-78  ;  education  and  , 
travel,  472  ;  studies  art,  472  ;  ! 
desires  to  illustrate  Pickwick,  472  ; ' 
as  journalist,  473  ;  his  attitude  j 
towards  life,  474  ;  Vanity  Fair,  ; 
475  ;  his  pseudonyms,  476  ;  Jane  \ 
Eyre  dedicated  to,  476  ;  literary  ] 
triumph,  477  ;  death,  478  ;  on  j 
George  EUot,  509  1 

Thanksgiving  to  Go^f,  ^ ,  Herrick's,  225 
Theatres,    the    early    London,    135  ;  I 
the    Elizabethan    audience,     137  ;  i 
scenery  in  Elizabethan,  165  ;    close  i 
of  the,  196  ;   reopening  of,  247         ' 
Thomson,  James,  316-18,  343  ! 

T hop  as.  Sir,  see  Sir  Thopas 
Thorn,  The,  by  Wordsworth,  408         1 
Thyrsis,  by  Arnold,  556,  558-59 
Timepiece,  The,  by  Cowper,  380 
Tindale,  WiUiam,  his  translation  of  ' 


INDEX 


the  Bible,  loi,  114-18;  goes  to  the 
Continent,  115  ;  publication  of  the 
New  Testament,  116;  translation 
of  the  Pentateuch,  116  ;  and  other 
Old  Testament  books,  117  ;  im- 
prisonment and  death  of,  117 

Tintern  Abbey,  Lines  composed  above, 
408,  409 

To  A  Ithea  from  Prison,  214 

To  Anthea,  by  Herrick,  228 

To  a  Daisy,  by  Bums,  389 

To  Evening,  by  William  Collins,  319 

To  Mary,  by  Cowper,  383 

To  a  Mouse,  by  Burns,  389 

To  Phyllis  the  Fair  Shepherdess,  177 

To  Pity,  by  William  Collins,  319 

Tom  Brown's  Schooldays,  557 

Tom  Jones,  332  ;  compared  with 
Goldsmith's  Vicar,  350 

Tottell's  Miscellany,  174 

Touchstone,  in  ^s  You  Like  It,  176 

Tractarian  Movement,  the,  and  Tracts 
for  the  Times,  557,  560 

Traveller,  The,  by  Goldsmith,  350 

Travels  of  Sir  John  Mandeville,  see 
Voiage 

Travers,  Walter,  his  controversy 
with  Hooker,  189 

Treasure  Island,  566 

Trelawny,  Captain,  on  Shelley,  422- 
24  ;   at  Shelley's  cremation,  428 

Triumph  of  Life,  The,  by  Shelley.  428 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  Shakespeare's, 
167 

Trollope,  Anthony,  and  Thackeray, 

474 

Trotwood,  Betsey,  486 

Troy,  Romance  of  the  Siege  of,  49 

True  and  False  Wit,  Addison's,  278 

True  Declaration  of  the  Troublesome 
Voyage  of  Mr.  John  Hawkins,  A,  182 

Truth,  by  Cowper,  378 

TulUver,  Maggie,  505 

Turner,  J.  M.  W.,  Ruskin's  cham- 
pionship of,  526,  527,  529 

Twa  Herds,  The,  by  Bums,  388 

Twelfth  Night,  164 

Twickenham,  Pope's  home  at,  287 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  The,  162 

Two  Voices,  The,  by  Tennyson,  537 

Tyler,  Wat,  73 

Tyrwhitt,  Thomas,  his  edition  of 
Chaucer,  86 


Ulysses,  by  Tennyson,  537 

Universities,  youthful  age  of  students 
at  the,  79 

University  Wits,  the,  124,  134,  135, 
139,  161 

Unwin,  Mrs.,  and  Cowper,  374-83 

Ussher,  Archbishop,  discovers  the 
Csedmon  MS.,  30 

Utopia,  100  ;  103-13  ;  its  inception, 
109-10  ;  description  of  the  island, 
1 1  o-i  2  ;  its  popularity,  112;  publi- 
cation of,  113 

Vailima,  Stevenson's  home  at,  569 

"  Vanessa  "  (Esther  Vanhomrigh), 
and  Swift,  307,  308  ;  meets 
"  Stella,"  309  ;    death  of,  313 

Vanhomrigh,  Esther,  see  "  Vanessa  " 

Vanity  Fair,  475-76  ;  and  Dickens, 
479 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  The,  338 

Vaughan,  Henry,  and  Anglicanism, 
195,  221 

Venus  and  Adonis,  163 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The,  comparison 
with  Fielding's  Parson  Adams, 
329,  349-52  ;  its  publication,  350  ; 
compared  with  Pamela,  and  others, 
350  ;    Scott's  reference  to,  449 

Victorian  Age  in  English  literature. 
The,  469 

Villette,  495,  501 

Virgil's  ASneid,  Caxton's  edition  of, 
102 

Virginians,  The,  477 

Vision  of  Don  Roderick,  The,  453 

Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,  The,  see 
Piers  Plowman 

Voiage  and  Travailof  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville, The,  50,  93-98  ;  popularity 
of,  96  ;  the  true  author  of,  97  ; 
referred  to  by  Sir  Thomas  More, 
no 

Volpone,  206 

Vulgate,  The,  Wiclif's  use  of,  91 

WakefiEi^d  cycle  of  miracle-plays,  51 
Waller,  Edmund,  effect  of  Puritanism 

upon,  196,  255 
Walpole,  Horace,  on  Pope,  287 
Walton,  Izaak,  on  Hooker,  187  ;    on 

George  Herbert,  215,  216,  220,  221 
Wanderer,  The,  35 

591 


INDEX 


The,   by   Fanny   Burney, 
William,       champions 


Wanderer, 

371 

Warbiirton, 
Pope,  292 

Watchman,  The,  Coleridge's  projected 
paper,  403 

Walsons,  The,  443 

Waverley:  or,  'tis  Sixty  Years  Since, /{^"^ 

Waverley  Novels,  The,  454 

We  are  Seven,  407 

Wearmouth,  monastery  at,  40 

Weir  of  Hermiston,  570 

Wells,  H.  G.,  influenced  by  Sir 
Thomas  More,  103 

Wendover,  Roger,  54,  55 

Westminster  Review,  The,  George 
Eliot  and,  507 

Westward  Ho  !  184 

Whitby,  26,  27  ;    Synod  of,  40 

White's  coffee-house,  267,  271 

Whitgift,  Archbishop,  189 

Wholesome,  Tribulation,  in  The 
Alchemist,  210 

Wiclif,  his  translation  of  the  Bible, 
50,  87-92  ;  his  period,  87  ;  life, 
88  ;  and  the  Schoolmen,  88  ; 
expelled  from  Oxford  and  settles 
at  Lutterworth,  89  ;    death,  91 

Widsith,  34 

Wild  Gallant,  The,  247 

Wilhelm  Meister,  Carlyle's  transla- 
tion, 512 

Will's  coffee-house,  253,  267,  271 

William  of  Boldensele,  Mandeville's 
indebtedness  to,  97 

William  of  Shoreham,  90 

Willoughby,  Hugh,  181 

W^imble,  Will,  277 

Winchester,  the  Chronicle  of,  45-47 

Winter,  by  James  Thomson,  316,  317 


Winter    Evening,     Winter    Morning  \ 
Walk,  Winter  Walk  at  Noon,  The, 

381  j 

Winter's  Tale,  The,  169  I 

With  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes,  566  ■ 

Wood's  Halfpence,  312  j 
Woodcock,  Catherine,  Milton's  second 

wife,  241 

Woodstock,  455  i 

Wootton    John,  174  ' 

Wordsworth,  Dorothy,  401  ;   descrip-  ! 

tion  of  Coleridge,  404  ■ 

Wordsworth,  Wilham,  influenced  by  ] 

Thomson,    318  ;     life    and    works,  ; 

397-411;    early  ye^i  s,   397;     and  j 

Nature,    398  ;     at   Oxford,    travel,  1 

effect    of    French    Revolution    on,  ' 

400  ;     friendship    with    Coleridge,  ■ 

402,    404  ;     the    Lyrical    Ballads,  j 

404-10  ;   in  Germany,  409  ;   settles  1 
in      the      I,ake      Country,      410  ; 
marriage,    410;     death,    411;     at- 
tacked   by    Byron,    414  ;     Shelley 
disagrees  with  liis  poetic  theory, 

426  ;    and  Lamb,  465,  466  i 
Worthies  of  England,  Fuller's,  189 

Wuthering  Heights,  496,  498  j 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  100  ;    and  Tot-  ■ 

tell's  Miscellany,  174  ' 

Wycherley,  William,  231,  255  ;    and  • 

Pope,  283 

Wynkyn  de  Worde,  102  ' 

Yahoos,  The,  314 

Yellowplush  Papers,  The,  473  ; 
York  cycle  of  miracle-plays,  51  . 

York,  school  at,  15  \ 

I 

ZUTPHEN,    Sidney    fatally    wounded  i 

at,  132  i 


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